


What goes around comes around

by Keytrastar



Category: Osmosis Jones (2001)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bickering, Drix is done, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Thrax, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I did my best, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, M/M, Nightmares, Ozzy is so bad at emotions, Past Torture, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Probably OOC?, Repressed Memories, Slow Burn, Snark, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Temporary Amnesia, Why Did I Write This?, so is leah, they both are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keytrastar/pseuds/Keytrastar
Summary: Thrax hadn't expected himself to survive falling into that beaker of alcohol, hadn't expected himself to make it back into Frank City alive. And he most certainly hadn't expected to bump into an old friend, looking to reestablish their ruined reputation.
Relationships: Leah Estrogen/Tom Colonic, Osmosis "Ozzy" Jones/Thrax
Comments: 53
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rewatched Osmosis Jones and remembered just how much I love Thrax as a character. Basically, I just realized I wanted to torture him a bit and it somehow turned into this. Enjoy!

_"....young viruses these days... All about the speed, the rush of a successful kill... No sense of style, no class.."_

_"Mm, sounds like you're pretty upset, baby..."_

Awareness came to him slowly. His mind was infuriatingly sluggish, his thoughts - hopelessly muddled. There was something hard beneath him, that he knew for certain. He was lying on something very uncomfortable. The ground perhaps? But... Then again... What was he doing on the ground? And why was he freezing, his entire body shivering violently beneath his heavy trench coat? Why were his clothes, usually so warm, so comforting, now clinging to his envelope, sticky and ice cold? Had he fallen into some form of liquid? It wouldn't be the first time he'd used that particular tactic to evade arrest..

And then the pain finally caught up to him.

A strangled, agony filled _screech_ wrung itself past his bloodied lips of its own accord, echoing in the darkened alleyway he now found himself within and ringing almost painfully in his own ears as every single receptor in his body seemed to light up as one, radiating excruciating hurt to the tip of every limb, making relief impossible.

He couldn't focus, couldn't even do so much as _breathe_ , his chest heaving in shallow, ragged gasps as he thrashed upon the hard ground, suddenly unable to stop his body from spasming violently in pain. Hot, white agony tore into him without mercy and all he could do was try and endure it, push past it in order to figure out what was _happening_ to him at that very moment-

So consumed was he, in fact, by the hurt travelling through his muscular form that it took him a while to realize that someone was right there with him, shouting frantically into his ear, voice dripping with terrified desperation and horror. Usually, just hearing those emotions would've brought him some form of pleasure. The knowledge that _he_ was the reason behind another's fear, the cause of their anguish, would've been more than enough to fill him with overwhelming, sadistic pride and joy. But not now. No. All he could feel right now was the burning agony coursing through his veins like liquid fire, as well as the fear that he could not for the life of him explain crushing and suffocating him from within.

"-ax! Yo, Thrax!"

Strong hands latched around his wrists, trying fruitlessly to pin him down even as he feverishly wrenched against them in weak protest, teeth held tightly clenched and barely stifling another torment filled scream that threatened to escape his bruised throat.

This voice, however... It sounded familiar. He knew exactly to whom it belonged to.

"Jo...nes..?"

Wracking coughs assaulted his form the moment he forced out that wretched name, crimson cytoplasm spilling past his lips as he did so and pouring thickly down his chin, the virus instantly regretting his decision of ever opening his mouth and actually talking. On a subconscious level, Thrax noted that he had to be seriously injured if he was quite literally choking on his own insides like that, but the thought was there and gone within seconds, a sudden pressure on his midsection wringing an agonized growl from his heaving chest, yellow eyes cracking open once more with far more effort than he would've liked.

The world swam uncontrollably before him, barely more than a mess of bright, nauseating colors and blurred shapes, but he forced himself to focus anyway, looking up at the thin figure now kneeling over him, trying desperately to staunch the heavy bleeding.

"Jones..."

The sheer irony of the situation was not lost on him.

The cell looked up at him in shock and horror as he suddenly heaved, raucous laughter bursting forth in rapid, sharp bouts that almost instantly morphed into a fit of vicious coughing and a pained groan, his sharp features contorting in an ugly grimace of hurt.

"Thrax?" Familiar blue fingers wrapped around his shoulders, shaking him slightly as he jerked weakly in the other's grasp, eyes screwing tightly shut as agony flared anew from all the jostling, something between a growl and a whine finally escaping his clenched teeth. Oh, his pride was definitely going to take a massive hit after this. _If_ he somehow managed to survive this, of course. Which was highly unlikely at this point now that he thought about it, his own cytoplasm and acid already pooling beneath his body and forming a large, warm puddle, soaking his clothes and making him feel even more cold than he ever was before. "Yo, Thrax! Can ya hear me?!"

He wanted to reply, he really did. Wanted to make a snide, venomous comment just to watch the anger flicker over those round features, to catch the faint glimmer of hatred, disgust and perhaps even fear within those familiar eyes, but found himself suddenly unable to do so, darkness already edging his vision.

Thrax knew he was starting to lose consciousness again, knew also that it was highly unlikely that he would ever wake up this time around with the speed at which he was losing his cytoplasm, but found himself strangely too exhausted to care. Perhaps... it wouldn't be all that bad if he died here now. His wounds would no longer hurt and.. He was so tired... So utterly spent. Besides, what better way to torture a cell than by _forcing_ them to watch someone die, knowing that there was nothing they could possibly do to save the other's life and forever leaving them with a memory of utter helplessness and overwhelming guilt?

His by far only regret was that he would not be able to watch Jones himself suffer from it.

The fingers around him tightened as his eyelids fluttered, the effects of bloodloss and weakness now fully taking hold. "Thrax?... Yo, Thrax?.. Ah, spit. Drix! Help me 'old him down while I call an ambulance! We gotta get him some help 'fore he hurts himself even more or bleeds out right here on the street!"

"Jones..." Another voice spoke up beside them, quiet and troubled. Because of the darkness now flooding his vision, he could not quite make out what the speaker looked like, but he knew that he'd definitely heard that tenor somewhere before as well. Thrax never forgot a voice once he heard it after all.

But... Why did the mere sound of it bring back whiffs of some terrible smell?

"Are you sure we should..? I-I mean.. after everything he..?"

"'Ey! He's still a cell, ain't he? We're cops, man, we help people that's just what we do. So how 'bout we get this guy some help and then place accusations, yeah?"

A heavy sigh echoed somewhere above him and a weight fell upon his shoulders, pinning him almost effortlessly and securely to the ground, but he found that he didn't care as he was already losing his grip on consciousness, falling willingly into the yawning expanse of darkness swiftly rising up to meet him.

By far the last thing the virus was aware of was the quiet rumble of Jones's unknown companion.

"I just hope you know what you're doing, Osmosis..."

And then everything around him fell away.

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

When he woke again he was lying sprawled on something soft and delightfully warm, thick covers draped over his form and his clothes no longer sticking to his lipid envelope in a wet and freezing mess. Actually, scratch that, now that he checked, they were gone from him altogether.

Growling in indignation and anger upon realizing he had been stripped of his belongings, the virus forced himself to open his eyes, examining the room he now found himself within in spite of the overwhelming weakness still making itself known. It took him a while to adjust to the dimness of the odd cell he was imprisoned in, courtesy of the single window decorating the wall to his right being by far the only source of any light for it, but he managed to do so eventually, blinking a few times to speed up the bothersome process.

White walls greeted him on all sides, clean and entirely bare, void of any decorations you usually anticipated to find upon them. Equally white blankets were draped over his crimson form, up to his very chest, in fact, stainless and far thicker than those he would've normally expected to be handed to a person of his.. _profession_. Just beneath their edges he could barely glimpse the pale fabric of clean bandages now wrapped around his stomach, likely right over the nasty wound he could not remember ever receiving. No matter, he was still probably just confused. His memories would return to him eventually and he would make sure to track down whichever germ or cell who had dared to harm him and pay them back tenfold.

Their screams would be music to his ears.

A wall-mounted tv greeted his eyes the moment he lifted them, but, quite disinterested in what that particular object had to offer him, Thrax soon turned away from it, his yellow gaze roaming over the dreary walls and eventually landing on the two doors gracing the tiny corridor connecting his room to the rest of the building. One of them _had_ to lead to the hallway. The other was most likely the bathroom.

When he looked over at the chairs standing next to his bed, however, his clothes were nowhere to be found. That particular knowledge was enough to wring another frustrated and irritated hiss past his lips. It would seem that he would have to search for them elsewhere, however unfavorable traipsing around in a patient gown actually was. His only solace was that if anybody _did_ happen to see him walking down the halls in such an unbecoming state, they would certainly be unable to ever tell anyone about it. He would personally make sure of that.

However, when he finally made the move to rise from the bunk he'd woken upon, the virus found himself unable to budge. Something held him back, something that was strapped tightly around his wrists, the sensation of which was only now registering with his still severely clouded mind.

The bitter sensation of fear starting to just barely gnaw at his core and insides, he tried to wrench upwards again, putting a little more force behind his movements this time, but nothing worked. His yellow eyes slowly widening, he attempted pulling on it again and again, unexplained panic slowly wrapping its icy claws around his core, suffocating him.

He recognized the feeling of that cold metal now.

Cuffs. He was cuffed down.

Chest heaving in shallow, ragged gasps, Thrax began to thrash against the bonds securing him, keeping him subdued, terror slamming into him with sudden and brutal force. He could not remember the last time he'd been this scared, could not recall ever being this terrified. He was _Thrax_ after all, one of the deadliest viruses out there! He feared nothing and no one!.. And yet... That was a lie. He _was_ frightened, and he didn't know _why_.

A strangled sob leaving his lips against his wishes, he pulled on the chains keeping him a prisoner, heedless of the pain instantly radiating up his arms, regardless of the way the metal handcuffs dug deep into his envelope, drawing forth large beads of a dark liquid.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that he was overreacting. Knew that this was absolutely no reason to panic. This wasn't the first time he'd found himself in restraints, after all, and he knew plenty of ways to get out of them at will. But any rational thought that he might have had left was almost immediately overpowered by the terror suddenly crashing into him, consuming him, washing over him in a giant wave until he felt like he was being crushed and suffocated, the frantic, shrill beeping of the monitors around him barely registering with his clouded mind.

Thrax _wanted_ them off, he _needed_ them off. Before he..Before they could... Please... This... This couldn't be happening to him again.. couldn't be real..he had escaped.. he was safe.. pleasepleaseplease not again... This couldn't be happening to him again... _Not again_!...

Dark, sadistic laughter that for once did not belong to him echoing within his own ears, blind terror devouring him whole and taking hold, he did not immediately realize that someone was now standing right there beside him, strong hands pushing him down as he continued to incessantly pull on the cuffs securing him, movements steadily growing more frantic and erratic as the seconds flew by. It took him even longer to register the voice now shouting into his ear, the stranger's vocals dripping with concern and desperation.

"Thrax! Yo, Thrax! It's me, Jones, ya hear?! Listen, ya gotta calm down, man, alrigh'? Ya're okay. Ya're in a hospital. Everything's fine, but ya gotta calm down! Come on, man, look at me. Open your eyes."

Before he even knew it, he was shaking his head almost feverishly in refusal, gasping desperately for air that he suddenly didn't have as he trembled violently, feeling lightheaded and dizzy. All but sensing the bile swiftly rising within his throat, he quickly leaned over the edge of the bunk beneath him, pale, rose colored cytoplasm spilling past his cracked lips and splattering noisily onto the polished floor, the virus unable to stop himself from gagging, shivering all over.

A disgusted noise sounded somewhere above him and the hands almost immediately left his upper arms, the other cell quickly stepping away from him as he heaved again, coughing and trembling from head to toe.

He was dying, he was sure of it. He was going to die here and there was no running from it. Any moment now, darkness would be swallowing him once more, one that he would never wake up again from, and he... He suddenly realized just how much he didn't want that.. _He didn't want that!_.. Please.. Please no...

"Ey! I need some help in here!"

Through the panicked, jumbled thoughts racing through his mind at lightning speed he could just barely make out the sound of a membrane door sliding open, the cacophonous noise of hurried footsteps and shouted orders, before he was being roughly pushed down upon the soft matress beneath him, a frightened, angered and utterly _desperate_ cry leaving his lips as he felt something damp slide against his envelope, already knowing what would soon follow after it. His claws unfurled of their own accord as the virus instinctively prepared to defend himself, his elongated finger extending, all too ready to reduce all the cells surrounding him into miserable little puddles of blue goo- Only... It failed to light up when he willed it to.

Shock and fear slamming into him with renewed force, he tried to extend it again, yellow eyes watching his only natural weapon in terror and first stirrings of true despair, but it remained the same, the familiar heat no longer coursing through his entire being, no longer channeling itself to the now useless claw tip.

So taken aback was he by the discovery in fact, that he did not immediately notice the needle slipping into the crook of his arm, injecting something into his cytoplasm stream. All he could focus on then was his own hand.

 _It... It didn't light up..._ _**It didn't light up when it certainly should have** _ _.._

His struggles steadily growing slower and weaker, he collapsed limply upon the bunk beneath him, sudden, powerful exhaustion and weakness washing over him, the world surrounding him slowly growing blurry and the figures of white cells - indistinguishable. Even so, he fought to stay awake as hard as he could, yellow eyes wide and filled with uncontrollable panic as his limbs suddenly felt like lead, far too heavy for him to move and lying uselessly upon the white hospital sheets.

Darkness filling his vision once more, he closed his eyes of his own accord, a last, choked and strangled sounding sob wringing itself past his cracked lips against his wishes, his claws digging and shredding the sheets beneath him before eventually relaxing as he lost consciousness once more.

_He.. He didn't want to die.._

Jones finally allowed himself to breathe a heavy sigh of relief as he watched those yellow eyes slowly slide shut, the frantic beeping of the monitors surrounding them slowly evening out until they were steady and rhythmic once again, his fingers uncurling from where they were clenched tightly around those broad shoulders, keeping the virus as still as possible while the nurses next to him administered the necessary drugs to put him under.

"What the hell was that?" He asked, panting heavily and carefully avoiding the puddle of bile Thrax had coughed up as he stepped away from the medical gurney, eyes wide.

"Panic attack," the doctor answered listlessly and almost emotionlessly from beside him, seeming oddly calm and entirely undisturbed by the recent events. "And a bad one too. We'll have to take him up for additional cytoplasm tests, perhaps an EKG and a chest X-ray to make sure he didn't have a core attack or has some other underlying problem that we are yet unaware of." One of the nurses nodded at those words, quickly gesturing for her colleagues to follow her with the stretcher down the hallway, the cop reluctantly stepping aside and letting them pass, suddenly unable to tear his gaze away from Thrax's unconscious form.

"Will he be alright?" He found himself asking a minute later, unexplained worry prompting him to do so.

The doctor sent him an odd look.

"I assure you, that we are doing the best we can... officer," the cell said slowly, almost as if he were weighing and choosing his words carefully, watching Jones warily from behind his round glasses. 'Despite of who and what he is', remained unsaid, yet heard by them both. "I will come to give you the full report on his condition as soon as we are done."

As reluctant as he was to let the other go without a proper explanation, the cop allowed the other to follow the nurses, watching in reproachful silence as the other man soon disappeared around a distant corner. Heaving a heavy, exhausted sigh, Jones leaned against the cold wall of the hospital hallway, hands shoving themselves deep into his pockets as he rocked back on his heels, resigning himself to a long wait.

Despite his best efforts to do otherwise, he couldn't stop thinking about what had just happened.

He'd never seen Thrax so scared, had never witnessed him so terrified. Hadn't even once considered that the other actually _could_ experience such an emotion as fright, was truly _capable_ of genuinely feeling frightened. Jones had never thought that the virus even knew what fear actually _was_. And now that the truth was staring him right in the face in all its ugly glory, he didn't know what to do with it.

Thrax had been absolutely _terrified_. To the point that he might have even suffered a core attack because of it. And none of them knew _why_. As if finding him bleeding out in a remote alleyway after going six months believing he was dead wasn't enough, now he had to deal with _this_. _Whatever_ this spit was.

Sometimes... Jones just really hated his life.

Rubbing tiredly at his suddenly aching temples, he tried his best to forget the way the other had trembled violently beneath his hold, the way those yellow eyes had widened in uncontrollable panic and sharp, crimson claws flexed, grasping desperately at the sheets beneath them and shredding them in an effort to do something as simple as to _get away_. And yet... He couldn't forget, couldn't put it all out of his mind no matter how much he might wish to.

The cell swore that the sound of that last, strangled sob before the drugs finally took effect had been enough to shatter his nucleolus.

"Ozzy?" A soft voice spoke up to his left and he looked up, expression morphing into that of surprise at the sight of the slender, elegantly dressed woman now standing there beside him, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"Leah."

The Deputy Mayor of the city of Frank merely raised a single, thin eyebrow in response, pointedly eyeing his shabby form and he quickly moved to neaten his clothes as much as possible, despite already knowing it to be a lost cause. Even though they had parted ways almost two months ago now, she still managed to make him feel just as self-conscious as when he'd been going out of his way to impress her, to make their relationship work. He didn't hold it against the woman though. It was just the way she was and he would rather die than ask her to change anything about herself that she had no real control over.

A long, awkward pause fell between them, neither knowing exactly what to say. After a few minutes, however, Leah sighed, finally collecting herself enough to walk over and lean against the wall next to him, the look in her eyes questioning and at the same time faintly worried. "What happened here, Oz?" She asked at last, her voice quiet and gentle, "The hospital just called, said there was something wrong with the.. the.." she seemed to fumble for a few seconds, as if unsure what term to use while talking about the red virus, disgust and disdain briefly flashing in her beautiful eyes, " _patient_. What did you do this time?"

"Why'd ya immediately assume that _I_ did anythin'? I'm just an innocent bystander in all o' this!" The other cell immediately huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, but there was no real malice in his voice, no genuine anger. Instead, if the situation they currently found themselves in had not been quite so serious, his tone could almost be called playful, certainly classified as light-hearted.

"Because you're not supposed to be here, Oz," the woman sighed, pinching her nose ridge in what could only be called exasperation. "You know what the chief and the mayor both have told you. You are too close to this case. You aren't even supposed to _be_ here."

"And why the Frank not?" The cop snapped back, turning sharply to face her. " _I_ was the one who found him bleeding out in that alleyway. _I_ was the one who brought him here just in time to save his life! I should have the _right_ to at least know how he's doing and whether or not he's gonna pull through!"

Leah heaved another heavy sigh at that, far too exhausted to argue after having literally been woken up by a phone ring at four in the morning, rubbing a slender hand into her purple tinged forehead. "Whatever...I am not here to start a confrontation. Just.. tell me what happened here so I can either go home or call the mayor depending on the situation's severity?"

"He had a panic attack," Osmosis muttered at last and the woman sharply looked up to stare at him, surprise evident in every line of her delicate features.

"What?"

"I was just standing out here, mindin' my own business, when I heard these noises comin' from inside. An' since the officers assigned to guarding him were nowhere to be found, I figured I'd go an check it out. Y'know, in case he was tryin' ta escape." The image of Thrax lying there, pulling frantically on the bonds chaining him down and dark cytoplasm sluggishly trickling down his wrists flashed before his eyes. "But he wasn't... Leah, listen, he was _scared_ when he woke up and found himself in cuffs. Hell, he was terrified enough ta start thrashin' around and even go so far as to hurt himself in order to get outta them! Now, I dunno about you, but Thrax don't strike me as a guy who scares easy! Somethin' fishy's going around here I tell ya, and I'm gonna find out what!"

The Deputy Mayor couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes if she tried. "Again with this? As much as I want to believe you, Oz, there was just no evidence of anything else going on! You know that! He probably just stumbled in here, severely weakened by alcohol, and got beaten up by some germ gang he crossed in a random alleyway. Case closed."

"Nah, no germ gang would be able to do somethin' like this. Least not without some serious help. Otherwise Thrax woulda kicked all their asses, alcohol burns or not. Come on, ya gotta see that somethin' else is going on here, girl, I feel it in my nucleus!"

He could tell that she didn't believe him, perhaps didn't even _want_ to really believe him after the recent crisis, and, despite his frustrations, he couldn't blame her for it. Not really. Frank nearly dying had almost destroyed all of them, certainly sent their whole system into jeopardy to the point that even six months later they were still trying to pick up the pieces, along with dealing with a new mayor who was still barely acquainted with his new position.

Knowing that there was another potential threat out there, perhaps even worse than Thrax himself, at a difficult time such as this was nothing short of terrifying.

"... Fine. I will speak to the mayor, see if we can increase our vigilance out there and put you on the case. Don't get too excited though," she quickly added, lips quirking in amusement as Jones moved to make an air fist pump, his round features lighting up in barely contained excitement. "There is no guarantee that either he or the chief will be willing to agree to this. Injured or not, Thrax is still very dangerous and, seeing as how you foiled his plans, it will be very difficult to get him to cooperate. Not to mention, your personal experiences with him could very well cloud your judgement while working on this case."

"Ah, come on, Leah! I would neva let my hatred for the guy mess up my police work! Have some faith in me, girl! I'm more professional than that!"

The woman merely smiled in reply, quirking an eyebrow in faint amusement and friendly teasing. "Uh-huh, keep tellin' yourself that."

"'Ey!"

Before they could continue their playful banter, however, they were interrupted by the quiet sound of a throat clearing and turned around, facing the same doctor Jones had spoken to earlier.

"I am sorry to interrupt your conversation, miss Deputy Mayor, but I have the report you requested about the virus' condition."

Slightly vexed that he had not been deemed important enough to apologize to as well Jones pushed off the white wall to stand beside Leah, temporarily putting his frustrations aside in favor of listening in on the assessment. Not because he cared that much or was particularly worried about the guy. Not at all.

"As you undoubtedly already know, the patient was brought in here suffering from several gunshot wounds to the torso, one of which severely damaged his shoulder, a single knife wound to the stomach and prolonged malnutrition. Upon further examination, we also found bruises and old burns, which officer Jones, here," the doctor nodded shallowly in his direction, "graciously informed us to be those of alcohol. We managed to stabilize him and successfully remove all foreign particles from his body. However," here the other cell took a slight pause, as if unsure of how to best break the news, being apparently quite taken aback by his discovery himself, "during the initial examination, we discovered something else. It would seem that the patient had undergone another surgery long before being placed in our care. One to his left wrist, in fact."

"What?!" Jones found himself exclaiming, earning an irritated glance from the other two cells but finding himself too surprised to care much about it. "What kinda surgery?"

The doctor sighed, but it didn't come out sounding all that saddened or remorseful as he'd obviously intended it to, blue fingers flicking the tablet that he held in his hands on, displaying a detailed image of what they soon recognized as the X-ray image of the inside of the virus's arm. "See this?" The cell asked, tapping lightly on an illuminated red line travelling from Thrax's elongated finger to the rest of his body. "This is the artery connecting his claw to his nucleocapsid. In layman's terms this is what gives him the ability to transfer his genetic material into other cells, infecting and destroying them as a result. And it has been clipped".

The two other cells shared a look. "So that's why he didn't try ta torch anyone while we were tryin' ta subdue him," Osmosis muttered, realization flashing over his face. "He simply wasn't able to."

"Correct.”

"Is it reversible?" Leah questioned, softly taking the thin tablet from the doctor's fingers, examining the image more closely, her almond shaped eyes narrowing just slightly in consideration. The man shook his head.

"I do not know why you would want to, but even under the best of circumstances, no. It is a permanent procedure. And with how crudely it has been done, it is a miracle indeed that he is still able to use that wrist at all."

The woman shot him a sharp look. "Black market surgery then?"

"Most certainly."

"Thrax wouldnta done something like this," Jones muttered quietly to her, all previous mischief and humor gone from his face, the cop now dead serious. "The guy dreamed of becoming infamous by killing. He would never have maimed himself like this. Not voluntarily."

"Thank you, doctor, we'll take it from here now." The Deputy Mayor said, turning back to the other cell and quietly handing the pad back, watching him depart with a polite nod before turning back to face her companion as soon as the medical worker was out of sight and hearing range. "You think someone else did this to him."

"I'm sure o' it, Leah. I mean, think about it yourself. Thrax had a long history of dead people on his claws even before he came here to slaughter us all an' even when he lost most of his gang in that explosion, he still went after the DNA bead, desperate to beat his record. Does he really sound like the kind of guy who would suddenly choose to grow a conscious and knowingly take away his own ability to kill?"

"No.." the woman said at last, the look in her eyes distant. "No, he really doesn't.. I'll... speak to Mayor Colonic about this. This might indeed be worth investigating after all. But I want to make something clear: we ain't doin' this for him. This is about the safety of our community first and foremost. We can't afford a vigilante running around, mutilating other viruses and then perhaps moving onto other cells when they run outta victims. Got it?"

A broad smile stretched across his face. "'Course. Sure thing, Leah."

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

The warehouse was dark and silent in the Smallest Toenail, appearing to be almost disturbingly void of any usual signs of life. For reasons they could not entirely explain, many germs living here in the slums surrounding it chose to avoid the place like the plague, whispering and speculating about it from the shadows, yet never really daring to investigate.

Even the most intrepid of youngsters, desperate to prove themselves as the bravest among their peers never dared to venture into the rundown building, eyeing it and occasionally throwing objects at it before retreating in a hurry, shouting in fear without any other reason than that they heard some suspicious noise coming from within it's depths that was undoubtedly imaginary.

All of which made it the perfect base of operations for someone who wished to remain below the radar, anonymous and all but a ghost in a crowded town.

Long claws tapped against the rough surface of a rotten-looking table, nauseatingly yellow and speckled with red. A tattered looking newspaper lay before it, Frank Times this time around, the first page displaying several article directions and product commercials in small print, but the being currently leaning over it was quite disinterested in such things, its attention directed elsewhere.

A fanged, unnaturally large mouth pulling into a tight-lipped frown, the creature tapped against the largest image taking up most of the space, displaying the painfully familiar face of one particularly infamous member of the La Muerte Roja family, as well as the bothersome white blood cell and his cold pill of a partner, but the figure was considerably less interested in them. Its claws scraped restlessly against the black and white photo, just barely digging into the flimsy paper. The bold, black letters of the title read: **Hero cop saves former enemy!** A rather weak name for an informative article such as this one in the creature's opinion. In wake of their near demise the journalists around here curiously appeared to have lost all touch for dramatics. But that was currently neither here nor there, the main thing of interest being the confirmation of the virus's fate.

So... It would seem that Thrax had survived his ordeal after all...

_Good._

Pale lips curled in a fanged, repulsive grin.

_Things were finally becoming interesting. Let the games commence._

The door opened with a shrill screech of rotting hinges and the figure reluctantly tore its gaze away from the image of the crimson virus, looking up at the cowboy dressed germ now standing in the doorway. Oh, how it wouldn't mind stuffing that ridiculous hat down the other's throat... But no, it unfortunately needed this fool around. For now at least. As well as the idiot's companions. And the being also supposed that it had to give this germ at least _some_ credit. He had been _very_ creative while tending to their.. guest, after all. Who knew that nearly killing a particularly dimwitted germ could prompt it to use its brains for once in order to come up with some truly ingenious torture methods?

The being filed away that knowledge for future use.

As silence persisted between them and the creature continued to show no inclination to start a conversation, the germ slowly removed its hat, shuffling awkwardly where it stood in the narrow doorway and clearing its throat before speaking. "Uh.. Boss?"

"What is it?" The shadowed figure hissed, making no efforts to hide its irritation and displeasure, sapphire blue eyes narrowing into tiny slits and flashing a venomous green in controlled anger.

"That virus you ordered us to fetch... The one you said was an informant? The boys just brought 'im in."

The anger was gone from those nauseating features within seconds.

"Excellent," the being purred, slowly rising from its seat at the wobbly table, chuckling darkly at the way Joe Cramp flinched violently away from its presence, allowing it to pass.

The large room they stepped out into was just as dark and rundown as the rest of the building, but neither of them cared much, already familiar enough with the entire layout to be able to move around freely even with the severe lack of proper light. From up on the second floor the being could just barely see the kneeling figure of their guest, surrounded on all sides by Cramp's fellow goons.

"My.. you did do a number on him, didn't you?" The creature purred, deep blue eyes glinting like microscopic gemstones, and yet there was something dangerous in its voice, something deeply malicious that sent shivers traveling down Joe's spine, the man watching his new leader cautiously from beneath the wide brim of his cowboy hat.

"'e didn't want to come, boss. We had to drag him here by force."

"Mm."

The small group looked up as one as the tall figure slowly, carefully made its way down the rotten looking ladder, footsteps falling oddly, almost _eerily_ silent, almond shaped eyes watching their newest visitor with faint interest and at the same time something akin to boredom.

The gathered germs shared a worried glance as their newest leader steadily approached, backing away against the wall and baring the huddled form of their captive, the virus shrinking away as the being came to kneel before him, green, revolting looking cytoplasm dripping sluggishly from a split lip and one eyes already swollen shut from what appeared to be a powerful blow delt to what was supposed to be the other's forehead.

"Chill, is it?"

The informant shook, fear filling his gaze as he forced himself to look up, terror clear in every line of his body. The mere sight of what it was doing, of the obvious horror its mere presence inflicted in the pathetic man collapsed before it was almost enough to make the creature purr in sadistic pleasure.

"Y-yes?"

"I need you to do something for me, Chill...'


	2. Chapter 2

The security at the Cerebellum Hall was quickly becoming quite a nuisance. Jones knew that it was a neccessary precaution, knew also that it was all for the best as they didn't want a repeat incident of someone breaking in and wreaking havoc upon the body again, but after being double and triple checked by security at the entrance, he was about ready to fish out his gun and start blasting. It wasn't like he particularly _wanted_ to be here. Hell, he would much rather drive home for a nice long shower and a logic-void soap opera, or even stay in the hospital with Thrax than _be_ here. Provided the guy was still unconscious, of course. Something told him that a silent, sleeping virus was the best virus.

But no, Mayor Colonic _had_ requested his presence, and he would be a fool not to answer his summons. Whatever the reason behind this impromptu meeting was, it had to be of great importance due to the sheer suddenness of it as well as emergency. Something most likely pertaining Thrax and whoever had done this to him. No doubt about it.

If Jones were to guess, he'd say that the Mayor and the Chief were most likely going to announce opening an investigation into the matter, even though, judging by the conversations he had accidentally overheard during his short stop at the precinct, most cells would prefer to commend the virus's attacker for fulfilling his civic duty, rather than track down and actually punish him for it. And the scary thing about that was that.. a small, pushed down and hidden part of him actually agreed with what they were saying, felt oddly, _disturbingly_ satisfied while skimming through the information displayed within the medical reports once more.

After all... Thrax probably got what was coming to him for a long time, received exactly what he deserved.. Right? Why _should_ Jones feel any guilt for enjoying this considering all the other's misdeeds, all the innocent cell lives that had been taken early from this world because of him? If Ozzy hadn't defeated him, hadn't stopped him, Thrax would've killed Frank and everyone in the city, and then would most likely have moved on to do the same thing to Shane. The cop had every _right_ to feel avenged, was _allowed_ to actually feel happy about this.

..Right?..

But then the bitter memories would flash through his mind, horrifying recollections of the other trembling violently beneath his hold, pulling almost frantically on the cuffs securing him to the gurney's rails until the metal was digging viciously into crimson wrists, dark beads of cytoplasm welling sluggishly within the deep cuts and dripping down to the polished floor. Would remember the absolute, nucleolus-wrenching look of _terror_ in those familiar yellow eyes, the pain and rising anguish festering just beneath the surface, barely held back and under control. Would once again hear the sound of that last, muffled and almost inaudible sob.. And would feel sick and horrified with himself for thinking this way, utterly disgusted and ashamed. Perhaps, it would have been a lot better, a lot _easier_ if the virus _had_ been beaten up after all. _Just_ beaten up. But the reports and photos of the other's injuries showed much more than bruises caused by a mere brawl.

Poorly healed alcohol burns along his right flank, purposefully left untreated compared to the multitude of others present. Fresh lacerations and old scars from what was clearly a knife or a dagger, judging by their shape and size. Cracked ribs and other shattered bone-like tissues that had to be re-broken and set again for them to heal properly. Multiple dark, almost black contusions all over, face especially, a sign of this being _very_ personal for the other's attacker. The virus's body severely underweight, showing signs of malnourishment. And that was just the tip of the iceberg as Frank would no doubt say, these injuries being only a few of the many listed by the the other's physician. Even though Jones had never yet encountered a case as brutal as this one during his long time spent working as a cop, he still recognized the signs for what they really were, had a pretty good idea of what exactly had gone down.

This wasn't a regular beating. Far from it, in fact. Someone had definitely taken their time with the red virus, kept and made him suffer for what was most likely several months, six, possibly, ever since his defeat at the cell's hands. More than that, the severity of each injury spoke of the sheer _calculated_ behavior of the unknown assailant. They were clearly designed to hurt as much as possible while still falling well within the range of non-fatal, never risking actually killing Thrax. Most low-life germs Jones had encountered up until now simply did not have the brains, the anatomical _education_ to pull something like this off. It could be simple luck that the other hadn't died, nobody dismissed that theory just yet, but the chances of it were very slim at this point. Someone else was behind this, Ozzy was sure of it. Someone far more dangerous and intelligent than the average germ.

It was no surprise to him now why Thrax had reacted the way he had when he woke up chained and alone in that empty hospital room.

Drix was surprisingly calm and cooperative during the entire course of the mandatory check, dutifully showing his badge, answering questions and opening his box-like chest cavity for them to look for... Something. The cop wasn't even sure what exactly they were searching visitors for at this point, neither did he really care, desperate to get this over with as quickly as possible.

After having their identities confirmed they slowly made their way through the dense crowds and towards the elevators, passing several more guards on their way as they did so. Apparently, claw marks were found on one of the lifts shortly after the DNA bead had been safely restored to its place in the Hypothalamus and reconstruction work had begun, hinting that Thrax had used one of them to sneak onto the top floors unseen. Even so, this amount of security around here was ridiculously excessive in Jones's humble opinion. As if the sheer number of people with guns would somehow make up for the lack of any real skill among them should they indeed encounter another threat.

"How can ya stand it?" He couldn't help but ask as they slowly made their way into one of the glass cylinders, the ground beneath them starting to shake and vibrate the moment they selected the floor they needed and the doors slid smoothly shut in front of their faces.

His partner sent him a confused look.

"Stand what, Jones?"

"The fear, the suspicion, the way everybody's constantly on high-alert, checkin' an' trusting nobody. We were a peaceful city, man, we helped each otha', we stuck togetha'. Nobody questioned yo' intentions, asked fo' yo' motives every second o' every day. But now, jus' lookit this!" He gestured wildly towards the ground floor which they had left mere seconds ago. Even from up here they could still see the cops cautiously threading through the bustling crowds or leaning heavily against the pale walls, their blue uniforms easily discernible amongst the multitude of other, far more muted colors.

He turned back to his friend once more. "There didn't use ta be this many cops round 'ere 'bfoe, Drix. We used ta _trust_ each other, we used ta feel _safe_ in our own _home_."

"These are all temporary and necessary precautions, Osmosis, you know that," the cold pill said quietly in response, trying his best to console and reason with his distressed friend. "As soon as the workers are done with the reconstruction work here, all the extra personnel will be removed from this area. And, sure, I have heard that more cells are being recruited into the police force and that old and new officers are forced to undergo additional training, but it is all in the name of safety of this community. I must admit, I do not see why you are so upset about this. Things will return to normal soon enough and isn't what we're currently doing here for the best?"

"Ya're missin' the point, man," the white blood cell sighed, leaning heavily against one of the transparent walls of the elevator they now found themselves within, " Things ain't _eva_ gonna be the same 'round here. We will _always_ be scared of somethin' goin' wrong again, always expect some danger t'be lurkin' in the shadows. And it's all 'cause of _him_."

Drix barely stopped himself from wincing at the sudden venom that had crept into his partner's voice, the simple word used to refer to the red virus seeming like a pejorative now more than anything else, something ugly, something dark flickering briefly over the cop's face. He didn't like seeing Jones like this, felt unsettled every time his friend got serious like this and longed to do something, to _say_ something that would return the peppy cell he once knew.

During their, admittedly short, partnership, the cold pill had gotten used to the infectious carefree, ever optimistic and joyful attitude Ozzy exhibited on a daily basis, had learned to welcome it even, especially during the more difficult days of their careers. But ever since Thrax's defeat, his friend began to have these... Episodes. Moments of anger, of hatred, of grief and sadness and crushing nostalgia where he would start wishing that they could return to the old times, before things had gone terribly wrong for all of them. Even if it meant going back to the days when he was shunned by his co-workers, mocked, never taken seriously just for doing the best he could for Frank. In fact, if it meant returning to the time when they were all at peace, Jones appeared to be willing to gladly trade his fame away and go back to perhaps the worst years of his entire life without a second thought.

Drix had hoped that this would all eventually go away, hoped that, with time, the old Osmosis would resurface and take over once more. But now, with Thrax's return and the possibility of another threat lurking somewhere out there, that chance seemed all but lost forever. And the worst part about it was that.. he himself didn't know how to handle it, had no idea of how to distract his friend from their current situation, even though he really, genuinely wanted to.

The elevator chimed softly as it finally slid to a smooth halt at the top floor, both of them abandoning it with great reluctance, already sensing the incoming flux of inquiries into the recent events. And they were not wrong about that either as the moment the two of them stepped out into the darkened hallway they were swarmed by the reporters already waiting for them there, a deafening, raucous cacophony of different voices, each louder than the one before it, filling their ears and effectively shattering the already uneasy silence that had fallen between them.

Osmosis did his best to keep his head down as they quickly made their way to the Mayor's office, squinting against the white, blinding flashes of lights and muttering 'No comment' over and over again alongside his partner, reluctant to disclose anything at this time or other. Not that it did them any good or served to discourage the journalists surrounding them at all, the inquiries coming off as very irritating now than mildly annoying as the crowd mercilessly attacked them with questions and half-baked theories from all sides, chasing after them and looking not that much different from a pack of ravening wolves.

They all wanted to know about Thrax, of course they did. Wanted to know if there was going to be an investigation, wanted to know if there was another threat out there, and, more importantly, inquired whether the virus was going to be executed for his crimes or not. Needless to say, that last question caught both of them by surprise, the two of them sharing a startled look as they walked.

Surprisingly, neither of them had really considered what would happen to Thrax after all of this, hadn't really thought about what was going to be done to him. Osmosis himself had just assumed that he was going to be put behind bars, preferably forever, but now that he stopped to think about it.. it would make sense to have him put down. Kicking him out of Frank City would mean putting all others at risk, starting with Shane. It would also give the virus the opportunity to return in order to exact revenge. Keeping him in prison was also most likely not a viable option as Thrax was intelligent and had most likely escaped such institutions before. Trying to rehabilitate him, according to many, would be nothing short of a lost cause. Having him executed was probably the only way of ensuring that he never hurt anyone again.

Even so, the thought of the virus being killed, especially after the recent events, did not sit right with him at all.

What these people didn't understand, didn't yet _know_ was that Thrax was no longer _capable_ of actually infecting anyone. In fact, he would never again be _physically_ able to do so even if he desperately wanted to. The damage to his artery was far too severe for him to access his genetic material and while he could still hold his own quite well without the use of his claw (the fight between them on Shane's eyeball immediately came to mind), there was simply no way he would be able cause anything that would prove to be fatal to the bodies he found his way into. His _career_ , for the lack of a better word, was over. He was _finished_.

But how could he explain all that to these terrified, paranoid people?

Thankfully, they were rescued from ever having to answer that last inquiry.

With just a few words and a stern glare she had mastered during her long years of working for Mayor Phlegmming, Leah dismissed the pesky journalists and ushered the two of them inside, hiding them from view within the large, insulated office and successfully locking the crowd of nosy cells outside.

"Thanks a lot fo' the save, Leah! You're amazin', girl!" Jones was quick to say, putting on his usual, carefree attitude and reveling in the small smirk she sent his way. As much as he'd like to talk all of this over with her, to confide in her, he knew that he couldn't. She already had a lot on her plate lately as it were by dealing with the new Mayor, as well as handling the ongoing rebuilding of their society. By far the last things she needed right now were his problems on her shoulders as well.

"No problem, Oz. Drixenol," she greeted, extending an elegant hand which the cold pill accepted with a polite smile and a sheepish shrug, his gun arm held tightly at his side and out of the way.

"You can call me Drix, ma'am," his partner reminded, just like he always did, and Leah let out a small chuckle of her own as well, informing him again that he had no need to be so formal with her either. They were all equals here, but habits died hard and after the long years he had spent in the university of Chicago, Drix still found it very difficult to let his politeness go for the occasional friendly informality. Ozzy and Leah were both hoping and determined to help him loosen up with time.

Tom Colonic was waiting for them farther inside the spacious office, sitting at his large desk and rifling through the many papers he had on his desk, surrounded on all sides by piles upon piles of reports and coffee cups, looking far more exhausted than the last time Osmosis had been here to see him and the dark bags beneath his eyes more than enough to make the group collectively wince. All three of them had had their share of sleepless nights spent working as well, enough to be _very_ sympathetic when seeing another cell suffer from the same fate.

The man looked up as they approached, Leah quietly clearing her throat to grasp his attention, a forced smile spreading across his face as he instantly rose from his seat, shaking hands with Ozzy and then Drix and gesturing for them to take a seat at the front of his table.

"I apologize for the mess," he laughed with a note of embarrassment in his voice, gesturing awkwardly towards the messy columns of papers and empty mugs. "I have not had the time and opportunity to make myself more presentable, I'm afraid. I hope you will excuse me."

"It is fine, sir, we understand," Drix said with a polite smile and the quiet geniality in his voice seemed to instantly put the other at ease, the mayor smiling at them once again, the grin coming off as far more relaxed and genuine this time.

"Yeah, we're totally okay, sir. Had a number of busy nights of our own not too long ago," Jones couldn't help but add as he leaned backwards in his own chair, flinging his right arm over the back of it and ignoring Drix's small glare at his lack of proper decorum. Fortunately, Tom Colonic, much like Leah herself, was not one for formality. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why they clicked so well. Looking at him now, Jones was genuinely happy for her and sincerely hoped that their relationship would work out after all. The new Mayor of Frank seemed like a very good man.

"Ah, yes, of course. The small burglary in downtown Left Kidney. I've heard you handled that very well, officer Jones. No casualties, all stolen items restored.. very impressive work."

Ozzy couldn't stop himself from grinning, just barely resisting the urge to puff up in pride at the unexpected praise. "Thank you, sir."

"You are most certainly welcome. You've done quite a service for this city I must say, and we are all extremely grateful. However, I'm afraid that that isn't the reason for which I have summoned you here today," here the Mayor became serious, all pleasantries leaving his features in a flash and the two cops instinctively tensed, instantly alert to the new development. "As you already know, we have been debating whether or not to open an investigation into the attack on one Thrax Roja, the virus you found in a very poor condition around five days ago now. Well, yesterday morning another body was discovered by the local officers."

Several photos were placed before them on the small patch of table surface that was not yet taken up by the piles of other documents and the two of them leaned forward, examining them closely.

A quiet curse left Jones's lips.

"Chill Influenzif was found dead yesterday in his residence in Liver district by one of his neighbors, who, fortunately for us, wasted no time in contacting the authorities. We are still waiting on the autopsy, but the cause of death at this point in time appears to be exsanguination."

"Aw, man, Chill, what were ya doin'?" Osmosis muttered quietly, softly placing the photo back on the smooth table. Even though the other had been a total sleazebag as well as a coward, he _had_ helped them during their investigation and had been a valuable informant to the police for years. The cop had never held any real ill will against him, and losing him was a major loss for their entire precinct. Drix and Leah remained silent beside him.

After a long pause where it became obvious that neither of his visitors were about to speak, Colonic continued.

"After some consideration, we now have reason to believe that this case may be somehow connected to the La Muerte Roja virus you found several days ago."

"Uh... What now?"

A heavy sigh left the man's lips, and the Mayor sank slowly down into his chair opposite of them, appearing somehow even more exhausted than he was mere seconds ago and dragging a hand through his already messy hair. "I was told that upon initial examination Chill's body showed many of the same wounds the virus, Thrax, I believe his name was, had sustained, including the wound to one of his wrists, though significantly less... severe."

Osmosis and Drix shared a worried look.

"It is the Chief's current belief that the attacker was not yet aware of Chill's work as an informant for us, as the wrist laceration symbolizes his intention to sever the artery all viruses naturally possess. Had he known-"

"-about Chill's flu shot work, he woulda also known that it was clipped a long time ago." Ozzy finished for him and the Mayor nodded an affirmative, gathering up the photos and handing them to the stunned cop who hesitantly and reluctantly accepted them, brows pulling into a confused frown.

"It is our fear now that the person behind these attacks has every intention of going serial. Which is why you two are being assigned to the case as Mr. Roja.. _Thrax_ , is by far our only witness and you have a history with him, making it more likely that he will be willing to speak to you, rather any other officer we have. However, that brings us to another problem."

"What kind of problem, sir?" Drixenol asked, leaning slightly forward in his seat, expression stony. Ozzy couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his partner this serious, not since they'd cornered Thrax in the uvula in fact. But then again, considering the circumstances, perhaps the other's behavior wasn't all that surprising.

"The hospital is requesting that the virus be removed from its premises as soon as possible," Leah spoke up from where she still stood at the doorway, leaning against the pale colored wall, hands held tightly crossed over her chest. Even though Tom had pulled up a chair for her to sit on as well, she had politely declined, preferring to remain standing for this conversation. She was probably suffering from a bad case of back pain again, Osmosis surmised. Having an office job tended to do that to you. "The patients and staff have been submitting complaints. Even with the guards posted around his ward and the restraints they simply do not feel safe knowing he's there, inside the building. As soon as he's stable enough to be safely transferred to another facility, they want him gone." The Mayor nodded in confirmation of her words.

"But..," Jones sputtered, his gaze flicking from one to the other, "we can't throw him inta jail! He's not in the right condition ta handle that! Not ta mention all the other inmates locked up in there! They'll kill 'im! And what if his attacka' comes back ta finish the job?!"

"Exactly," Colonic said, leaning back exhaustedly in his comfortable seat, hands bracing themselves on the edges of his piled desk. "And with the entire city still recovering from the recent crisis, it is difficult for us to place him into protective custody for the duration of this investigation, we simply do not have the resources needed for that in our possession now. Which is why we were going to.. request that one of you volunteer to house him for the time being."

" _What?!_ " Osmosis couldn't stop himself from shouting, launching himself upwards with enough force to send the chair he'd been sitting on flying to the floor with an ear-splitting crash. Drix, to his credit, managed to keep his composure, though he was visibly shaken by the mere suggestion as well. "You can't be serious!"

Tom Colonic let out a heavy sigh. "I am truly sorry for asking this of you, sincerely, and I understand your reservations, but we have no other viable options. The virus is simply too valuable a witness and we cannot afford to take too many risks with his life. Not now when peace in Frank City is so fragile and just about anything can tip it over the edge and send it crashing back down into chaos." He looked up, forcefully meeting their eyes and they could all practically _see_ the burning determination in the other's gaze, the will to protect their large community and keep it from collapsing the same way it had all those months ago.

"I will _not_ make the same mistakes my predecessor has. This criminal must be apprehended as soon as possible. Before more viruses can fall victim to his goals. Please, I implore you, help me stop this before it can get out of hand."

A heavy sigh left Ozzy's lips. "Fine, he can stay at my place fo' the time bein', but I would like ta reserve the right to use physical, non-lethal force if I feel threatened and, in turn, promise that I will not discharge my weapon unless absolutely necessary."

Tom Colonic nodded at those words with a grateful smile, but neither Leah nor Drix seemed to share his enthusiasm about the idea as they were quick enough to object, his partner turning in his seat to face him fully.

"Jones, you don't have to do this. I am perfectly capable of taking him in myself, and, in fact, believe it to be the better choice. I am better equipped, larger, physically stronger, and do not have such a.. problematic history. I can give him the necessary protection for the duration of our investigation as well as keep him in line should he try anything. It is my highest recommendation that he be placed in my care."

"He's right, Jones," Leah spoke up softly from her spot by the wall, the look in her black eyes worried. "Allow Drix to handle this by takin' him in. It would be best for both of you if you and Thrax stayed apart as much as possible while working on this case. For heaven's sake, he tried to _kill_ you, Oz, don't you remember that? I do not doubt your abilities, believe me, but why take such an unnecessary risk?"

"'Cause he's _my_ responsibility, Leah," Osmosis retorted, avoiding each of their gazes by staring at the polished floor beneath him, arms held tightly crossed over his broad chest. " _I_ was the one who found out about his existence, _I_ was the one who figured out what he was planning an' _I_ was the one who stopped him before he could kill all o' us by returning that DNA bead back ta it's rightful place in the.. the..."

"Hypothalamus," Drix supplied and Jones sent him a small glare, making a shushing motion and making the cold pill raise his hands in a placating manner.

" _Hypothalamus_ ," Ozzy finished, turning back to the Mayor, jaw setting in determination. "If there's someone after 'im and every virus out there now then it's _my_ job ta track the bastard down. Please, sir, I have to do this, I _can_ do this, I'm sure o' it."

Colonic said nothing for the longest time, his eyes boring into Ozzy's. Something in the cop's gaze seemed to satisfy him, however, because after a few minutes he relented, leaning back in his comfortable seat with a small nod. "Very well, Officer Jones. I will authorize you taking the virus into your custody until we can identify the perpetrator behind these attacks. However, do keep in mind that I _will_ be forced to remove Mr. Roja from your care at the first signs of trouble."

"I understand, sir, thank you," the cop nodded, exhaling heavily in relief, the tension almost immediately leaving his hunched form.

"Good. Now, since the virus will still be in severe need of medical attention you will also be required to confer with his current physician. I know that all officers in the police force are required to learn first aid, but it would still be better if you brushed up on those skills and learned exactly what will be expected of you." A small grimace flickered briefly over Jones's face, but he nodded in agreement nonetheless. The Mayor smiled.

"It is settled then. The detailed reports pertaining Chill's case, including photos and witness statements, will be on your desks when you return to the precinct. You are dismissed."

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

_His wrist was strapped down to a table._

_Despite his best efforts, he couldn't move it. Burning through his restraints soon turned out to be an impossible feat, they were metal, and actually melting them would take too long... Far, far too long. And he couldn't quite reach the keyhole with the tips of his claws either in order to unlock them that way. It would seem that he would have to resort to dislocating his fingers then in order to slip out. However... When he attempted to do just that, he found that he simply had no real strength to accomplish it, he was far too weak, far too exhausted to put the neccessary force behind it._

_It was only then that he realized that he couldn't move at all, that he was effectively held down, kept utterly helpless._

_Indignation already clawing at his insides, he wrenched feebly against the chains keeping him subdued, pain almost instantly radiating throughout his body in protest, jarring his most recent wounds and his whole being screaming at him, shouting and pleading for him to remain as still as possible. But he knew he couldn't, realized that he had to free himself even as fear began to mix with his fury, its icy claws already sinking themselves deep into his core, smothering him._

_"Oh, I see that you're awake after all.. Excellent. Here I was worried that you would miss the show."_

_That voice... How long has it been since he'd heard it last? Several years for certain, maybe even a decade. Ever since he'd decided to go solo..._

_"It's quite a shame, really, what happened that day. Even I can admit that, and, truth be told, while I **was** angry with you for a long while, believe me on that, I was quite willing to let it go. Until you decided to upstage me that is, make me the laughingstock amongst all!"_

_He sensed the incoming blow far before he actually felt it, a resounding thud echoing in the confines of the darkened room as he was viciously backhanded, claws scraping painfully against his sharp cheekbone and his head snapping to the side with the sheer force of the sudden hit, a grimace shadowing his angular features at the bitter taste of cytoplasm against his tongue as crimson liquid trickled sluggishly down his chin._

_Despite his anger, his burning hatred and the pain consuming him, Thrax forced himself to remain silent, refusing to give the other the pleasure of hearing his suffering and merely glaring balefully at the figure now towering over him, lips curled in an ugly snarl and yellow eyes promising vengeance. Not that it seemed to faze the other at all._

_A dark chuckle left his assailant's throat._

_"Well, I sincerely hope that you've had a good run, enjoyed your time in the limelight... Because now the time has come for me to reclaim what is rightfully mine.." That loathsome, blue gaze trailed lower at those words and he reluctantly followed it, soon landing on his shackled wrist._

_Terror slamming into him with sudden, brutal force as it finally dawned on him just what exactly those words entailed, Thrax began to thrash violently in his unforgiving bonds, yellow eyes going wide in uncontrollable panic as shadowed figures surrounded him on all sides, easily holding him down even as he fought viciously against them, an infuriated, yet at the same time terrified cry wringing itself past his lips and echoing in the confines of the darkened room. But all of his weak resistance soon turned out to be in vain._

_He felt rather than saw the razor sharp blade against his left wrist, the cutting edge carefully positioning itself and just barely digging in, teasing him, torturing him with a mere **hint** of the suffering that was yet to come._

_He already knew what they were about to do with it, knew what they were planning to take away, and the thought of it alone was more than enough to send him into full blown panic, his movements steadily growing more erratic and desperate as the seconds flew by and he realized that he could not free himself._

_"No..," he finally whispered, voice choked and terrified, horror wrapping around his chest and crushing it until he was gasping desperately for air, struggling weakly in the goons' arms. "No!.. I.. You.. you can't do this to me... **You can't do this to me!!** " The blade dug in even deeper regardless of his words, sadistic laughter filling the confines of the small room as a thin trickle of cytoplasm started to just **barely** drip from the cut within his wrist, pooling and staining the polished table below._

_He was almost begging at this point. He hadn't begged anyone for anything for many years. Couldn't even **remember** the last time he'd been forced to do so. Not since his days as a teenage virus perhaps. Maybe even earlier than that. And yet... Here he was, demanding, **pleading** for them not to take away the only thing he truly valued in this world, his comfort, his support, his very purpose and by far the one tool that would bring him the infamy that he so desired. Without it he.. he would be **nothing** and he couldn't stand the thought of that, wouldn't be able to **handle** that!... No!.. No, **please**..._

_The figure now standing across from him only smiled that revolting grin, cold, sapphire blue eyes boring into his, twinkling maliciously in the low light of the darkened room._

_"You should've thought twice before ever choosing to cross **me**...."_

Thrax woke with a start.

It took him a while to calm down, his chest still heaving in quick and shallow gasps and his whole body shaking uncontrollably as the remnants of the terrifying dream still made themselves known, took a long while to ebb despite the fact that he'd already forgotten the details of his most recent nightmare. It took him even longer to gather his bearings, to realize where he was, the sensations of the comfortable matress beneath him and the soft blankets draped over his form only now registering within his clouded mind.

Oh.. that's right.. He was in a hospital now.

The overwhelming sense of weakness suddenly washing over him, he looked to his right, his yellow eyes almost instantly falling on the IV bags and tubes hanging there, confirming his suspicions. So, they were keeping him drugged then, the dosage insufficient to force him to remain in an unconscious state, but just large enough to keep him weakened, easily controlled. An expected and even logical action on their part, but one that made his lip curl in disgust and derision regardless.

How very typical of them. He almost felt sorry for their obvious inadequacy that lead them to resort to such extreme measures in order to control him. Almost.

Realizing that escape would be impossible at this point in time and resigning himself to a lengthy, bothersome stay, he leaned back on the pillows supporting him, now truly examining his surroundings more closely, looking for anything he could possibly use to his advantage once he regained some strength. Which... Wasn't much as he quickly concluded. The room was purposefully stripped of everything excluding the barest of essentials, leaving him very little to actually work with. Frustrating, yes, but nothing he hadn't handled before. He would just have to be a little more creative in his escape than usual.

Even from his spot deep inside the ward Thrax could just barely make out the sounds of an ongoing quiet conversation, could count at least two voices coming from the hospital hallway, maybe even three. The cells of this body really were taking no chances with him by posting guards outside his room as well then. The virus would be lying if he said that that particular knowledge did not bring him some amount of pride.

When he finally mustered enough courage to look down, his wrists were still chained to the sides of the gurney beneath him. For some reason the mere sight was still enough to put him on edge, Thrax could already feel the anxiety clawing at him even with the drugs coursing through his system, keeping him from suffering another attack. His elongated claw lay limply upon the soft, pearly white sheets and he tried to move it, tested it by slowly curling and uncurling his fingers. Nothing seemed to be amiss, but he could _feel_ that something was wrong with it, almost sensed that something was _missing_ from it. But those feelings weren't the only things that bothered him about this whole situation by far.

Why had nobody tried to secure it after all the precautions that had already been taken? Why was his claw not encased in long-lasting ice, or some other contraption that would contain his abilities? Did they really no longer consider him that much of a threat? Or... Was there another reason behind this? But, in that case, what could it possibly _be_?

The sensation of loss and rising confusion only worsened when he tried to light it up once more, desperation steadily blooming within his chest alongside his perplexity as it failed to react to his commands, the familiar sensation of the near scorching heat no longer coursing through his veins. His yellow eyes slowly widening, he tried again, and again after that, silently hoping, _pleading_ for it to light up, but it remained the same despite his attempts, dark and seemingly lifeless.

He.. he didn't- couldn't understand it. What-..

"It ain't gonna light up, Thrax," a quiet voice spoke up in the sudden silence that had fallen over the medical ward and he looked up, meeting Jones's gaze head on. They stared at each other like that for a few seconds until the other finally sighed, his expression nothing short of grim as he cautiously stepped closer, now standing a mere three feet away from the virus's bed.

"It ain't eva gonna light up again."


	3. Chapter 3

"What have ya done ta me, Jones?"

Thrax's voice was quiet. _Too_ quiet. Too calm and even for someone who'd just been told that he'd been scarred for life, mutilated, left _disabled_. For someone who's career, who's very _life_ as he knew it was officially _over_.

The cop had to admit, he'd been expecting anger, had been waiting for the other to start thrashing in his bonds, spitting threats and insults and trying to lunge at the white blood cell that had foiled his plans mere months ago, successfully ruining whatever chances he had of gaining infamy. Had thoroughly prepared himself for such a violent reaction, but this... This wasn't what he'd been anticipating at all. Far from it, in fact.

As he looked at Thrax now, it was almost as if.. as if something within the crimson being had abruptly shut down, crumpled and snapped beneath the weight of the distressing news. As if something within him had _broken_ , the other instantly withdrawing into himself the moment the complete meaning behind the cell's words fully registered within his mind.

Ozzy would be lying if he said that that didn't upset him on some level, didn't make him feel even more angry and resentful towards the person behind all of this. Chill had not deserved to be butchered and killed. And Thrax, for all his faults and crimes and unleashed horrors, had not deserved to be mutilated for another's sick pleasure and amusement.

"I ain't done nothin' ta ya, man," he said softly, quietly, almost gently, his familiar round features darkening in a grim look, the expression upon his face now seeming alien, almost out of place when compared to his usual, cheerful facade, "But someone else has."

The virus visibly tensed as he slowly approached, long fingers flexing almost anxiously in their restraints and yellow eyes narrowing into tiny slits of confusion, suspicion and perhaps even hatred - only to go wide as the other abruptly extended a lit tab in his direction, silently offering to take a closer look at what was shown there. Shooting Jones a brief startled and slightly disbelieving look, the man slowly, almost _hesitantly_ reached out after a long pause in order to accept the smooth object, bringing it up to his face as close as physically possible due to the shackles still strapped around his wrists, squinting and examining the detailed image now displayed upon it.

A heavy, almost uncharacteristic silence fell between them as Thrax simply _stared_ at the X-ray now placed before him, his hold around the offered tablet growing tighter and tighter with each passing second as faint tremors travelled through his hunched form, beyond his control.

Ozzy was sure that the virus knew what he was looking at, realized what this meant for him. Knew that Thrax could clearly see the incision now marring his main artery and understood exactly what it entailed - a wound that he would never recover from, a permanent disability, an end to his entire career and his life as a deadly disease. All his goals, his dreams of making his way into the medical books - all officially over. Everything the other had ever known, everything that he was and would ever _be_ \- now successfully stripped and torn away from him, stolen by another person. Could tell by the way those dark claws suddenly clenched around the polished metal, to the point that he worried they would crack the gadget in two. Could deduce by the way those yellow eyes widened and the sharp jaw slackened, shock seeping into every line of the other's body and horror following closely at its heels.

What certainly made the situation so infinitely worse was the fact that such a procedure was never done without a virus's full consent. Never. Not once in his many years as a law enforcement officer had Jones heard of it being used as punishment, whether in Frank City or some other body out there in the world. The claw and the artery connecting it to a virus's nucleocapsid were fundamental parts of their very being, their very _identity_ , and the transition after their removal was always very difficult, even for those who had specifically asked for it.

Chill himself had once tried to describe it to him, how the months of adjustment after the surgery turned out to be literal hell on Earth where he would constantly feel as if something was _wrong_ with him, yet would never quite be able to put his finger on exactly _what_. Recalled feeling as if something was _missing_ from him, often finding himself frantically searching for the thing that he knew he'd lost and yet couldn't name. As if that on itself wasn't enough, he also remembered being assaulted by sudden, powerful sensations of helplessness and anxiety that, more often than not, were powerful enough to leave him in a catatonic state for short periods of time and were nigh impossible to snap out of on his own. Moments where he wouldn't be in control, would be filled with overwhelming despair. Where he would feel like he was dying and would be scared for his very _life_. Though, granted, that last part was divulged by the officer assigned to guarding him during the change rather than the flu shot himself, but that did not change the point.

And _such_ a serious reaction was still considered to be normal for when a virus gave their ability up by choice. The consequences of a _forced_ removal, without their full agreement, however, were unimaginable. Depression, anxiety, unexplained flashes of panic as well as anger and an increase in violence and overall hostility just to name a few... Ozzy was frustrated to admit that he couldn't remember much more from that particular lecture about virus psychology that he'd been forced to attend with everyone else, but he knew for sure that the results were bad. Very bad. Knew that in most cases, if not handled properly, such an injury would usually lead to suicide.

After all, a virus didn't just use their claw as a weapon for murder and destruction. They needed it to _survive_ , to protect themselves whether while hopping bodies or living among their own kind. It was, by far, their only constant and reliable support in life. Suddenly losing it destroyed them.

Which was largely why the practice was strictly prohibited from ever being utilized as punishment. Even in cases such as Thrax's. A quick execution would be far better, far more merciful than forcing them to live without the abilities they had been born with and depended on for the better parts of their lives. Than watching them fall apart at the seams and self-destruct, sometimes even taking a few more cell lives along with them out of desperation.

The cop simply couldn't imagine what the other was about to go through.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jones supposed that he should be pleased by the knowledge of the other's subsequent suffering, that it should bring him at least _some_ form of pleasure. In fact, he would understandinbly be _justified_ in feeling that way after everything the man had put him through. And yet.. looking at Thrax now.. he couldn't quite muster up the will to feel that way.

The virus's expression had gone strangely blank the moment he'd been handed the scan of his own arm, making it suddenly difficult for the white blood cell to read him. Even so, he still witnessed the confusion vanish from those yellow eyes, swiftly replaced by dawning realization and growing fear. Caught the sharp, powerful tremor that travelled through those dark claws, the thin tips just _barely_ starting to dig into the polished surface of the screen as their owner stared at what was essentially the physical representation of his end. Did not miss the way the other swallowed heavily, the action almost imperceptible, yet undeniably real nonetheless, body instinctively hunching over and curling in on itself, making Thrax suddenly seem... _smaller_.. certainly less threatening. All physical reactions that could not be concealed fully by anyone, including the injured virus now lying upon the narrow gurney, but ones that Jones had been trained to catch as an immunity officer in the FPD, to take immediate notice of.

Despite fervently trying to remind himself of the crimes the other had committed and his subsequent hatred for him, Osmosis could not fully squash the strong feelings of pity suddenly welling within his nucleolus.

"Who did this ta ya, Thrax?" He questioned softly, cautiously approaching the crimson virus once more, worry swiftly blooming within his chest at the faint look of shock, hurt and utter _helplessness_ that flashed over the other's face, there and gone within seconds as Thrax desperately tried to regain control of himself. "D'ya have any idea who might've done this?" Knowing Thrax, the guy _had_ to have a lot of enemies. But the cop also didn't doubt that there were probably very few among those ill-wishers who could match his strength and fighting skills enough to actually beat him.

Or smart and sadistic enough to steal perhaps the one thing that truly mattered to the virus the most.

A shrill, startled yelp wrung itself past his lips as the pad suddenly shattered within the other's hands, crumpling in his grasp with terrifying ease and an ear-splitting crack and crashing down to the floor between them in a mess of torn wires and broken glass.

Yellow eyes snapped up to glare balefully at him from beneath purple dreads, the look within them filled with pure, terrifying malice and rage as the other's crooked teeth bared in a vicious snarl of absolute fury, prompting even Jones to take a quick step back, putting himself far out of the other man's reach.

"Ya're lyin' ta me, baby," Thrax growled lowly, voice echoing ominously in the confines of the empty room as he wrenched against his bonds, all the anger that had previously been held back and under control now bursting forth as if through a broken dam, "Ya're _lyin'_!!"

The beeping of the monitors still attached to the virus grew in speed and volume as his anger rose to worrying levels, sharp features contorting in rage as he continued to fervently deny what had been done to him, what had forever been taken away from him, sharp claws scrabbling uselessly against the cuffs holding him down. And yet... There was something else there too, besides the burning fury and hate. Behind the wrath now directed at him Jones sensed something else festering there as well, a more powerful underlying emotion that Thrax was desperately trying to hide from him, but one that was not entirely under the virus's control. It actually took him a few seconds to recognize what it was, to realize what the other was truly feeling and what was largely responsible for making him react this way. And when it _did_ finally dawn on him what that emotion was, it wasn't what he'd been expecting to find at all.

_Grief._

Nucleolus clenching almost to the point of pain in his chest in sympathy and pity, he stepped forth once again, reaching out to grasp the other by the shoulder, to do _something_ in order to calm the distressed being down - only for Thrax to recoil violently from his touch, yellow eyes narrowing and lips curling in a weak, almost _forced_ gesture of rage and overwhelming dismay. Almost like a wounded animal that suddenly found itself backed into a corner.

"Ya know I'm not," he said as softly and as calmly as he could possibly muster, the look in his eyes one of sadness. "Ya know as well as I do that I wouldn't lie 'bout somethin' like this." No blood cell ever would. No matter what the other's crimes were.

Thrax choked at those words, hurt flashing over his face once again, far more visible this time around as the full reality of the situation finally crashed down upon him, denial and anger swiftly giving way to his overwhelming fear and sorrow. His long claws clenched sharply in their restraints, digging almost ruthlessly into his own palms as if in a desperate attempt to ground himself through pain as he shook, unable to fully contain himself or his reactions. Even the drugs being forcefully pumped into his system seemed to do little against the full force of his despair, his broad chest heaving in quick, shallow, gasps until the virus was practically hyperventilating where he lay upon the narrow gurney, eyes slowly sliding shut and sharp features contorting in helpless rage and wracking anguish.

"Thrax?"

His worry getting the best of him despite his best efforts to remain uncaring, Ozzy stepped towards him once more, now seriously considering calling the nurses for help, when the other finally looked up at him again, lips contorting in a vicious snarl.

"Get out."

Osmosis went very still where he stood, hesitation filling his movements as he stared at the crimson virus now lying before him, mouth opening to say something, _anything_ that would perhaps be of some comfort- but the other never quite gave him the chance to do so. "Thrax-"

" _GET OUT!_ "

Unprepared for the sudden loud and rage-filled shout, the white blood cell bolted, slamming the door of the medical ward behind him and reluctantly leaving the other to his all-consuming grief.

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

The next few days flew by confused and muddled. Thrax was no longer able or even _willing_ to keep track of the passage of time. Once in a while, he would be visited by the few nurses tasked with attending to him, but paid little to no attention to them, their cautious glances and palpable fear of him oddly failing to grasp his interest. Normally, he would've had his fun with them. Would've scared them just for laughs or turned on his charm in order to woo the most naive cell out of the bunch, just enough to convince her to release him from his cuffs before promptly slaughtering her and her colleagues and escaping. He'd done that a few times before in other bodies. The virus remembered that it had been fun.. for a while anyway.

But reminiscing about his old exploits no longer brought him any joy and only served as bitter reminders of what he'd lost.

He soon found that focusing on _anything_ now was becoming increasingly more difficult. Some days were spent in a frantic, desperate search for something he couldn't name but knew that he desperately needed, that he required to _survive_. Some were spent in denial, pretending that nothing was wrong and creating plans on how to beat his latest record. Others were spent simply lying upon the medical bed or struggling against the metallic restraints, filled with all-consuming and blinding rage. There were also those days, few and far between, where the virus would be entirely aware of his surroundings, realize exactly what was happening to him.

And those days were by far the worst.

He knew that his body was already adjusting to the drastic change, healing from the multiple other injuries littering his form. Knew also that his mind, on the other hand, was taking a much, much longer time to actually catch up with it, but could do absolutely nothing about it.

Some part of Thrax still denied what had happened, simply couldn't accept it, tried to convince him that it was all just a terrible dream. One that he would wake up from. Eventually. He tried listening to it too, tried to tell himself that it all wasn't real, that his claw would start working once he sufficiently recovered from his wounds, and, for a while, the lies had worked. But as the days passed by and his wrist continued to show no signs of change, his sense of hope and spirit began to wane.

Even his anger and plans of getting revenge on the person behind his new disability had failed to fully squash the bitter feeling of despair steadily welling within his core.

Jones would sometimes visit him as well.

They didn't always speak to each other, simply felt no inclination to, given their history, or were too consumed by their own problems to try. Some part of him had to wonder why the white blood cell still continued to show up. Was it the enjoyment he undoubtedly got from watching him suffer? Or was it his twisted sense of responsibility for what happened to him, his guilt? Was he truly having fun? Or was he genuinely disturbed and worried? Either way, the crimson virus soon found that he couldn't care less.

Some days they would simply glare at each other in silence, Thrax in particular making it clear that the cell would eventually suffer a painful death for his defeat and humiliation. Other times they would do their best to pretend the other didn't exist. The rare visits during which Jones _did_ try to speak to him were mostly spent questioning him about what had happened, asking him if he remembered anything about the person who'd done this, telling him that even the smallest details would help greatly with the investigation. And the most terrifying thing about those conversations, he soon found, was that he couldn't give the other an answer even if he wanted to, simply couldn't _remember_ anything after falling into that beaker of alcohol. He remembered pain, yes, remembered hanging onto the transparent edges of the jug for dear life as every inch of his body lit up in white, hot agony. But beyond that? Nothing. Nada. Only darkness.

It was almost as if a large chunk of his memory was _missing_ , simply _no longer there_. No matter how much time he spent rifling through his own recollections, no matter how much he struggled, he couldn't _remember_ what had happened, couldn't _remember_ who'd done this to him. And that perhaps terrified him the most.

As if his claw wasn't enough, even his own memory had now been taken away from him.

Having achieved next to nothing in furthering the case, Jones would eventually leave without a word, but Thrax still saw the worry flicker briefly over the cell's face every time, the _pity_ and _concern_ for him. Emotions that would've usually sent him flying into a rage, but ones that he now could only regard with a detached sort of indifference.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen indeed.

"Thrax?"

Speak of the devil.

Jones was standing before his bed when he finally forced himself to look up with great reluctance, the other's anxious, black eyes meeting dull, almost lifeless, yellow. Even from way over here he could already see the unease bleeding steadily into the other's posture, coupled with the odd worry that still puzzled him to this day even after the few weeks he'd spent trapped in this God forsaken hospital. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that it was almost as if the white blood cell actually _cared_ about what happened to him, actually _bothered_ to waste his time feeling sorry for him. Even so, it was still difficult for the virus to bring himself to care about that or whatever was happening around him now, to focus on _something_ , _anything_ other than his own loss..

"The nurses have told me you haven't been eating."

That actually sparked some confusion within him, his brows furrowing in a thoughtful frown. _Had_ they been trying to feed him? He hadn't even noticed to be honest.. Had been too consumed by his own problems to actually try to pay much attention to his surroundings. But, then again, they _had_ put him back on an IV several days back now that he _really_ thought about it. Some part of him wondered if perhaps he should be disturbed by his own sudden inability to keep track of the world around him, but the thought was there and gone within moments.

It didn't matter to him now.

A heavy sigh left the cop's lips at the forced, almost half hearted glare sent his way, pulling up a chair to sit as close to the other's bed as he dared, hands clasping tightly in front of him. "Look, ya gotta eat, man. Believe it or not, ya ain't doin' anyone any favors by starving yourself to death." Now _that_ actually brought him a sliver of dark amusement. The virus could name _tons_ of people who would rejoice at the news of his passing, including basically every cell and germ who lived in Frank City. In fact, he even suspected that they would throw a giant, city-wide fucking party just upon hearing about it.

If anything, he would be doing virtually _everyone_ a favor if he ever _was_ desperate enough to try and kill himself. However unlikely _that_ particular outcome was.

Jones must've caught his silent mirth because his brows furrowed in a frown, worry sinking deep into his black gaze. "I'm bein' serious 'ere, Thrax. Ya gotta start taking care of yourself."

"And what does it matter to you, _Jones_?" The virus sneered, glancing at the other from the corner of his eyes, claws clenching tightly in their restraints. He did his best not to look down at his left wrist.. and the pale horizontal scar now marring the red envelope there. "Not enjoying the show as much as you thought you would?"

It was a pathetic low blow, even _he_ could admit that, but to his credit, the cop didn't even blink at the growled words, didn't so much as flinch at the sheer, harsh bitterness behind them, his frown merely darkening where he sat upon the uncomfortable-looking chair. Instead of recoiling or snapping back at him like the virus had expected him to, the cell merely heaved another sigh, leaning back in his seat and his arms crossing tightly over his broad chest. Thrax did not miss the hardened glint resurface within those black eyes. Interesting.. He hadn't seen it for a while now.

"Look, I'm just _tryin'_ ta help ya here, man."

Somehow that simple statement and the obvious avoidance of his inquiry only served to anger him even more.

The cuffs clanged loudly and unpleasantly against the metal railings of his gurney as Thrax sharply leaned forward, longing to wrap his claws around that blue neck and _feel_ the membrane tear apart beneath their deadly tips, soaking them in warm cytoplasm. Should've probably done _that_ during their fight on that girl's eyeball.. all those months ago now. Maybe _then_ none of this would've ever happened.. or if it had at least he would have died immediately after it. Would've died doing what he was good at, what made him so feared among all, what he _loved_... Yes, that would've been a far more preferable outcome to this. To being forced to live in eternal shame, beaten, mutilated and utterly humiliated. The laughingstock among all viruses out there. A disgrace to the entire family of Red Deaths. As if they hadn't suffered enough ignominy already..

The cop might think that he'd done Thrax a favor by saving his life, but in reality he couldn't be more wrong. The virus had nothing left for him now, no goal to strive towards and living like this was nothing short of a curse.

By far the only thing he could possibly do at this point was at least hunt down the person who'd done this to him and make him pay. But, after that? Well.. He didn't really want to think about it.

"I don't need your help, _Jones,_ " Thrax spat, anger coloring his features even as he winced, the pain from the healing stab wound still making itself known even two weeks after his.. ordeal. One that he couldn't even _remember_ now.

There was definitely some sick humor in there somewhere that he was missing. He was sure of it.

"Right.. Coulda fooled me when I found ya bleedin' ta death in some random alleyway," the cop snapped back, voice sharp, finally seeming to have reached the end of his wits and patience, glaring back at him with equal rage and hatred. To say the virus was taken aback by the retort would be an understatement, but he recovered quickly enough, yellow eyes narrowing into tiny slits.

It was.. strangely nice to see Jones show some backbone again, even _he_ could admit that. Moments precisely like these reminded him why he respected the cell so much in the first place. That and the aggression and anger were far easier to accept and deal with than pity or concern. For him at least.

They stared at each other like that for what seemed to be ages, both reluctant to give in to the other, engaged in a silent battle that neither of them wanted to lose. To their mutual surprise, however, it was Thrax who looked away first, his gaze dropping to his laced claws, frustration, anger and something awfully akin to shame roiling bitterly within his covered chest.

He'd never been one for self-pity. Never. Had always been able to find solutions, to keep moving forward instead of wasting time pointlessly feeling sorry for himself. _Despised_ even entertaining the mere possibility of doing so. And yet.. he still found it difficult to pull himself together an entire week after learning of his new disability. Simply could not focus on anything else other than his injury instead of making real viable plans of taking his revenge, of trying harder to remember even the smallest bits of information that would ultimately help him in tracking down the poor fool who had dared to do this to him.

Thrax's lips curled in a snarl, disdain and utter disgust with himself roiling bitterly within his chest.

What an absolute disgrace.. He didn't want Jones of all people to see him this way.

The cell's gaze softened, just a fraction as the quiet between them persisted and when the cop spoke again, his voice could almost be called gentle, certainly be classified as considerate.

"Ya wanna catch the bastard who's done this to ya, right? Ya ain't gonna be able to do that if yo' dead."

As silence prevailed between them and it quickly became obvious that the other would not speak to him again, Jones left, softly shutting the door behind him and leaving the crimson virus to his thoughts.

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

"Do you think he was trying..?"

"No.. No, I don't think so. I think he was jus'.. tryin' ta come ta terms with what happened to him. Kind of like when Chill had his own artery clipped." _'With the exception that it had been done by choice'_ , Ozzy added silently to himself, his arms crossing tensely over his t-shirt clad chest.

As he finally took the time to look around him, the Police Chief's office seemed strangely far smaller than usual, but perhaps that could easily be explained by the sheer number of people now standing within it. It was simply not designed to admit many visitors to begin with and what little extra space it _did_ manage to provide had long since been taken up by stacks of reports, file cabinets, a small sofa, a few chairs and a big office desk at which the, equally as large if not even greater, man usually worked.

Leah frowned.

"Are you sure of that, Oz? Maybe we should put him on suicide watch. You know, just to be on the safe side here." Jones's lips quirked in a small smile.

"Suicide watch? C'mon, Leah, don't you think that's a bit unnecessary? This is _Thrax_ we're talkin' 'bout here. Hurt or not, he loves himself too much to actually do anythin' drastic like that. Sides, I think he's too focused on catchin' the guy who's done this to him to entertain such thoughts."

The woman only heaved a deep sigh, rubbing exhaustedly at her temples and he had to wonder when she had slept last, brows furrowing in concern. He himself hadn't been able to rest all that much these past few days as well, too caught up in the case, but he'd gotten used to doing that during his long years as a cop, was able to go a long time without needing sleep. Leah on the other hand.. "Are you _sure_ , Oz? We can't take too many chances while working on this case. You know that. We cannot risk getting too comfortable here, ya dig?"

When she looked up again, he met her eyes head on, without a single hint of hesitation, trying desperately to pour even a fraction of what he truly felt into his gaze, into his very words.

"I'm sure o' it, Leah," Jones said calmly, firmly, his voice radiating a silent reassurance, "Thrax may still be a danger to others, but he's definitely no threat to himself. Ya can trust me on that."

Something in his tone must've calmed her, because the Deputy Mayor soon nodded, a small, yet forced smile gracing the corner of her lips and her hands subconsciously adjusting the strap of the handbag thrown over her shoulder in what he already learned to recognize as a nervous gesture. One she never seemed to be able to hide or suppress. "Good. Now that that's settled, Tom would like to know where you currently are on the case. Any suspects?" The Chief, who'd been sitting silently and practically motionlessly up until that moment, looked up at those words from his paperwork as well, interested to hear what they had to say. Not that they had a lot to offer any of them currently..

Fortunately, Drix saved him from having to answer, coming to his aid like he always did, having somehow sensed Ozzy's own reluctance to speak up. His partner's ability to just _know_ whenever he needed help or to be simply left alone never truly ceased to amaze him. It was one of the reasons why they had become friends so quickly, why Ozzy respected the cold pill even when they had their disagreements. He, in turn, did his best to teach the other to lighten up, kept his spirits up even at the worst of times.

They balanced each other out nicely. In more ways than one. And made each other better cops, better _people_ as a result.

Neither of them ever regretted their choice of sticking with each other during Thrax's attack on Frank's body and after it.

"Unfortunately, no. We have conducted several additional interviews with Mr. Influenzif's neighbors, but none of them have yielded anything useful. The same goes with his.. pals, if you will forgive me the lack of a better term. We did our best to retrace his steps, visited a few organizations that he frequented, but nothing of particular interest has so far come up. The only thing we found was that the victim was in debt, and while we do not yet dismiss that as a possible motive, Jones and I have agreed that this crime does not appear to be conducted by a gang leader looking to be repaid. The rather specific injuries, including the wrist laceration, indicate as much. However.." Here he trailed off, glancing uncertainly in his partner's direction from the corner of his eyes and Ozzy gave him a shallow nod of encouragement, face kept carefully blank. This wasn't the best time for them to start keeping secrets. Not if they wanted to catch the bastard behind these attacks.

Even though they hadn't had any new virus deaths or dissappearances since Chill's murder, the cop doubted that this was all over. The perpetrator may be keeping a low profile at the moment, but they were definitely far from done, had a specific goal they were striving towards and would stop at nothing to reach.

And Jones would be damned before he allowed them to accomplish it.

"What?" The Chief asked, having already lost his patience even though only a minute of silence had passed, fetching a cigar and lighting it up even as Leah frowned in slight disapproval and distaste at the strong smell of smoke, barely covering up her tiny coughs and covering her mouth and nose ridge as much as she possibly could without it being mistaken for a rude gesture. Not that anyone here in particular would've minded it too much. The Chief had long since gotten used to everyone's vehement dislike towards his smoking and stopped caring about it several years ago.

Drix cleared his throat, something he seemed to always do when he felt particularly uncomfortable, forcing himself to speak up once more. "However... We believe that the perpetrator was aware of Mr. Influenzif's work as a vaccine."

Now _that_ successfully grasped the attention of everyone now standing in the cramped office of the lymph node precinct.

" _What?!_ " Leah sputtered, incredulity and alarm coloring her voice, shock sinking deep into every line of her beautiful face. "How do you figure _that_?!"

"The wrist cut," Ozzy answered for his friend, his gaze dropping to the wooden-like membrane floor beneath them. "It was too messy."

The Deputy Mayor and the Chief of Police shared a startled, confused look.

"Messy? What d'ya mean by _messy_ , Jones?" The large man demanded, leaning back heavily in his chair, the abused piece of furniture creaking pathetically beneath his weight and promptly going ignored.

The white blood cell couldn't hold back a wince. Oh, this was definitely going to be very difficult to explain. Ozzy had known it would be ever since the realization had first sunk in for him, but perhaps some small part of him had hoped that it would be easy when it really came down to it. Now that he actually tried, however, - no such luck.

"I mean that it looked hurried. Like someone jus' wanted to give the _appearance_ that they were 'bout to nick Chill's artery when that wasn't the case at all. The medical examiner said the same thing." He forced himself to look around the room. They were all listening to him intently now, he could tell they were, but that was still a small comfort, if any. He knew better than anyone just how flimsy this evidence was, how many other possible reasons there were that could possibly explain it. "It wasn't as _precise_. Thrax's injury was clean an' neat. The person behind it was obviously bein' very careful with their work. Compared to his, Chill's looks very haphazard, as if he'd been struck in the general location of his artery as if in an effort ta throw us off, as if the guy killin' him had no _real_ intention of maiming him."

"But.. that doesn't necessarily mean that he knew about Mr. Influenzif's work," Leah stated quietly, long fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around her handbag. "Isn't it possible that they were spooked? Or perhaps this is a copycat?"

"No, this is certainly not a copycat crime," Drix spoke and the woman looked up at him, literally having to crane her neck in order to be able to meet the other's gaze. "We never released the details of either virus's injuries to the press. This was definitely the same person."

"That still leaves the possibility that he was spooked, as Miss Estrogen has suggested," the Chief grunted out from around his cigar, but there was a worried glint in his eyes now. Osmosis swallowed heavily, shaking his head, dreading the possibility of what he was saying actually being real, actually turning out to be true.

"That is true, but... Sir, the person who's done this is smart. Definitely very powerful if they were able to take down someone like Thrax an' keep him under their control for months on end. I don't think they would be scared away from the crime scene so easily, in fact, I don't believe that they would commit their attacks in the open like that in the first place. Due to the minimal amount of cytoplasm on the floor of Chill's apartment, it's quite clear that he was _transported_ there after death. So why hadn't his attacker taken the time to do a proper cut? Unless.. he already knew that he would find the artery clipped. As reluctant as I am to say this, sir.."

Here Ozzy took a deep breath, his shoulders squaring and lips pressing into a thin, tense line.

"We have to entertain the possibility that the murderer we're searching for 's on the force."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay. I'm working on another fic parallel to this one and I guess I really need to create a writing schedule for myself or something.. Enjoy the new chapter!

Thrax was doing it again.

Jones wasn't sure when it had started, couldn't say what had exactly prompted it. All he really knew was that after being presented with the proof of his new condition the virus had started doing this.. thing, this _tic_ that appeared suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere and only seemed to grow worse with each passing day.

Leaning back against the bare wall behind him with a heavy sigh, Jones could only watch in morose and grim silence as the by now painfully familiar elongated claw flexed, slowly curling and uncurling, the sharpened tip all but tapping restlessly and incessantly against the smooth surface of the metallic cuff strapped tightly around a thin wrist. Almost as if in repeated attempts of activating, of melting through the bonds keeping Thrax helpless, detained and bound to the gurney he'd been placed upon. Almost as if some subconscious part of the virus still believed that it would work, that one of these days.. it would all go back to normal. That his life would make sense to him again.

Jones sometimes had to wonder if Thrax was even aware of what he was doing, realized what his body was trying to accomplish and yet thought better of actually bringing it to the other's attention. Not yet anyway. Not unless.. unless it turned into something even worse, something far more disturbing than the almost spasmodic claw movements the virus was currently exhibiting. If that sort of thing was even possible at this point.

The cop couldn't hold back a dark grimace from flickering briefly over his face, blue fingers rubbing almost furiously into his suddenly aching temples. Pity, uncontrollable and wracking, welled steadily within his chest in spite of his best efforts to remain detached and unfeeling. In spite of his desperate attempts at trying to remain indifferent to the other's pain.

Thrax hadn't said anything since his latest vascular ultrasound. To any of them. Had barely reacted when he'd been presented with the image of his own arm, allowed a clear view of the inside of his wrist and the permanent damage now inflicted upon it, thus confirming his darkest fears. Had remained silent even as they wheeled him back to his room, the other still far too weak and unsteady to be able to successfully walk on his own. Had refused to see any of them after that, even Leah, suddenly unwilling to talk or even tolerate their quiet presence. Not that he'd been all that enthusiastic to begin with...

And that uncharacteristic silence, that sudden withdrawal from reality somehow turned out to be far more disturbing than any open anger and lashing out could ever be.

It was almost as if.. as if the final vestiges of hope and spirit that the other had been fervently holding on to had finally died, finally dissipated the moment he was presented with the terrifying confirmation of his new fate. As if Thrax was now merely forcing himself to go through the motions, to act just as he would before, desperate for some sense of normalcy, some control over his life as well as the world surrounding him. But, despite his very best efforts, it didn't seem to be working out for him at all, the virus unable to stop himself from slowly slipping further and further into complete and utter despair.

The truth of the matter was very simple: Thrax was slowly dying on the inside and there was virtually nothing they could really do about it.

The doctors were now saying (not without a significant amount of regret, Ozzy noted) that the virus was going to make a full recovery. Eventually. A full _physical_ one at least. Though Jones secretly doubted that the same could be truly said about his mental state, the medical professionals tasked with attending to him carefully avoiding that particular topic whenever the cop tried to bring it up.

After all, their job was to merely fix the other up just enough to turf him out as soon as possible. His psychological trauma and subsequent adjustment were none of their concern.

The fact that the virus had finally started eating again after their last conversation was considered to be a very good sign. Even if it could hardly be called eating, Thrax forcing down the bare minimum before losing appetite and turning away from the offered sustenance, yellow, seemingly already dull and lifeless eyes staring listlessly outside the single window his dreary room provided.

At least it meant that they could start weaning him off the IV again.

Contrary to their worries, however, it didn't seem like the virus was purposefully trying to starve, Ozzy was sure of that. Thrax wasn't truly trying to harm or even kill himself, as Leah had suggested back at the lymph node precinct. No. It was more like.. like he was barely aware of what was going on around him, like it was suddenly just overwhelmingly difficult for him to focus on virtually _anything_ , the other far too lost within himself and his own thoughts to even try to do so. As if the virus had just simply lost all interest in life. Or perhaps was still too busy suffering from a bad case of shock.

One thing was for certain though: they had to get him to snap out of it somehow. And preferably as soon as possible. Before this could turn into something much, much worse than a case of mere dissociation.

"Are ya sure? There ain't anotha' reason for it?" He found himself asking the other quietly, glancing at the red blood cell now standing next to him from the corner of his eyes, unable to fully tear his attention away from the virus's hunched form.

The physician beside him slowly shook his head, the look on his face kept carefully blank, almost painstakingly indifferent. Even though he had expected to see this palpable dislike towards the crimson virus on a daily basis, it still upset Jones on some level to witness it, still served as a constant source of annoyance.

He preferred to think it was the underlying unprofessionalism that truly angered him. And not the pity and concern he found himself experiencing whenever his thoughts happened to stray towards the injured being, the creature who, by all accounts, simply did not _deserve_ the slightest bit of sympathy.

"The mind is a difficult and oftentimes mysterious thing, officer Jones. There is a multitude of other possible causes that could potentially explain his memory loss, but I currently see no physical reasons for it. If I were to present a guess, and this is mere speculation at this stage mind you, I would say that he is most likely.. repressing them."

The cop's face darkened in a frown.

"Ya mean.. he's purposefully keeping 'em back? But why?" It simply didn't make any sense if that were indeed the case. The virus wanted to find out who'd done this to him just as much as the cop himself did, Ozzy was sure of it. He'd seen the anger and thirst for vengeance flicker within the golden depths of the other's eyes whenever he tried to question Thrax about his experience, barely visible amongst the hollow, forced hostility and restrained sorrow yet undeniably real nonetheless.

Hurt as he obviously was, the other still longed to track down and punish the person responsible for his pain.

The doctor drew in a heavy breath, thick fingers minutely adjusting the rectangular spectacles now perched almost precariously upon the very tip of his nose ridge, the look in his eyes nothing short of exhausted. The perfect picture of a man who'd voiced similar speeches before and was swiftly growing tired of doing so.

"Well, as I've already said, there are a lot of other reasons that could potentially explain it. The most common of which would include grief, anxiety, depression even, but it is _possible_ that his memories of the event were also deemed just _too_ damaging and distressing to allow him to continue to function. Traumatic to the point of being blocked from being revisited at wish, the mind taking extreme measures to protect itself from the vicious onslaught upon it."

"And what makes ya so confident in such a diagnosis?" Ozzy couldn't help but ask in an exhausted huff, crossing his arms over his t-shirt clad chest and finally bringing himself to turn his back on the temporary one-way window the membrane wall had created for them.. and the crimson virus now lying beyond it.

To his credit, the doctor didn't even flinch at the sheer ice coating the other's voice, didn't so much as blink at the quiet anger all but radiating from Jones's hunched form in waves, sadness flickering briefly within his dark eyes instead.

He'd seen this defensive stance many times during his life and years working within this hospital. Had been on the receiving end of such aggression more times than he could possibly count, usually after delivering the bad news that neither his patients nor their friends or relatives truly wished to hear, much less were willing to accept.

It was a natural response of a person who was desperately wishing that he had misheard, that he had accidentally mistaken the no doubt optimistic diagnosis for something that was essentially a death sentence. The reaction of a person who hoped that somewhere along the line a mistake had been made and everything would go back to normal once it was corrected, as it definitely should. One that was not at all that different than the one they were currently witnessing in the crimson virus himself, in fact. As well as his rival.

When the man spoke again, his voice was quiet, could almost be called gentle, the dark gaze hiding behind thick spectacles softening with the force of the doctor's sympathy.

"I've seen a lot of similar cases such as this one over the past several months, officer Jones.. Cells coming in confused and disoriented, suffering horrendous burns to most of their membranes and possessing absolutely no memory of how they had found themselves in a hospital or what had happened to them.. what had been done to our once great city... Almost as if their memories had been wiped clean, or locked away, never again to see the light of day. Never to serve as a bitter reminder of the catastrophe that nearly killed all of us."

The cop looked away at those words, jaw setting in a tense gesture as old anger immediately rose to the surface once more, thick fingers clenching almost spasmodically around his upper arms and shoulders squaring in subconscious defensiveness. But even so, he didn't say anything. Didn't even try to think of anything to voice. No. After all, how could he truly reply to something like that? What could he really say? What comfort could he even hope to offer?

Many of them had lost loved ones in the fire that Thrax had started. Most, if not all, had suffered some form of loss, be it their homes, their families, their neighborhoods and friends or even their own lives. Very few walked away from Frank's near brush with death itself unscathed. Osmosis knew that perhaps better than anyone else.

The memory of scouting through the charred streets and wreckages of what used to be peaceful districts for weeks on end, discovering new bodies almost every other day was still all too fresh within his stressed and weary mind. And he couldn't stop the horrible sounds from echoing within it, the distant crackle of burning fires and desperate shouts of his colleagues echoing uncontrollably within his own ears each and every night, mercilessly haunting his dreams and effectively turning them into nightmares.

They had all tried to forget those terrible first few months after the virus's heist, including the white blood cell himself. Though it would seem that some were far more successful than others. For better or for worse.

"Will he ever be able ta recover them?" He asked after a few minutes of tense silence, shuffling uncomfortably where he stood leaning against the window and studiously avoiding the other cell's gaze, suddenly finding himself very interested in the polished, mirror-like floor beneath them.

"It is.. uncertain. There are a number of ways for them to come back of course, but it is a gradual recovery. Piece by piece. Nightmares, certain triggers that would remind him of the traumatic event, body memory too perhaps. Somatization disorder could also act as a contributing factor, however in this particular case I doubt that the patient is likely to develop it. However, officer Jones..," here the doctor trailed off, as if unsure of how to continue, taking the time to carefully formulate what he wanted to say to him next.

"If you truly wish to ensure the patient's continued survival and perhaps even his eventual integration back into society... however unlikely that outcome might turn out to be.. you might find it prudent to consider.. _avoiding_ trying to make him remember what had happened to him."

Shock and amazement washing over him in a sudden wave, Ozzy's head snapped sharply upwards, black eyes meeting those of the physician standing before him.

"Uh.. What now?"

"I understand that any knowledge he might possess about his assailant could be paramount to the furthering of your investigation, but.. Please consider the effects that it might have on Mr. Roja himself. The recollections were locked away by him for a reason. Making them resurface could have irreversible, debilitating effects on his already rather fragile psyche. As a virus, and a fairly powerful one at that, the loss of his claw is severely damaging as it is and if he starts remembering... Well, all I'm saying is that it could push him over the edge. Once and for all."

His confusion and disbelief must have somehow reflected on his face, because the doctor soon looked away, taking his glasses off and wiping the lenses in what appeared to be a subconscious, nervous gesture, lips thinning almost imperceptibly into a grim line.

"I became a doctor for a reason, officer Jones. And as cliche as it undoubtedly sounds to you, it is because I wanted to help other cells, to save lives. I would never be able to work in Immunity, not like yourself, as I simply do not possess the courage, the sheer _bravery_ that that particular job requires of you. However, I still wanted to offer others aid and.. The point of the matter here is that, killer or not, Mr. Roja is my _patient_ and it is my task to ensure his full recovery. Not just a physical one, but a psychological one as well. And thus, it is also my job to warn you: making him remember now instead of giving him some time to adjust to the situation could potentially break him to the point of no return. It is my advice that you consider the stakes carefully before doing something that you might regret later on."

A heavy silence fell between them once more, but it seemed almost deafening this time around as the information fully sank in, the cop carefully regarding Thrax's physician, gauging his sincerity. From the corner of his eyes, Osmosis could see that the claw's motions had finally stopped, that the appendage had finally halted in its anxiety driven movements, but could not truly focus on it, black gaze boring into an equally dark one.

After what seemed like ages, the doctor finally began to turn away, apparently done with the conversation and obviously intent on returning to the other patients under his care and in need of his attention.

"Though he is stable now, we would like to keep him under close observation for a little while longer. You will be able to transfer him by the end of next week. I hope that that is acceptable?"

"Yeah," Jones said in reply, voice quiet and barely more than a whisper. "Yeah, that should give us enough time ta get everythin' set up for 'im."

"Good."

And with those last words, the medical professional finally left, the white tails of his medical coat soon disappearing around a distant corner, leaving the cop to his own increasingly darkening thoughts.

Ozzy did not move for the longest time after the other's departure, simply could not will himself to budge from where he stood leaning heavily against the cold wall of the closed off ward. A heavy sigh left his lips, an almost neon blue palm dragging down his face in a frustrated and at the same time overwhelmingly exhausted gesture, his mind still revolving uncontrollably around the recent conversation.

On the one hand, maybe... Maybe what the other had said to him was actually true. Actually the correct course of action to take here. Maybe.. it _would_ be better if the virus never remembered, never learned the full truth of how exactly it had all gone down, how he had received the injury that would forever change his entire life. Or at least was kept from it for as long as possible, just until he had had enough time to recover and grieve. But.. at the same time, shielding him from what had happened would only mean more assaults, more victims, more deaths. And they currently had so little leads to go on...

_It was either Thrax or everyone else in Frank City._

Shaking his head in a weak attempt to dispel such depressing thoughts for the time being, he turned back to the membrane window, staring emotionlessly into the closed off room- only to soon recoil violently from it in surprise, shock washing over him with startling force at what he saw within it.

Yellow eyes stared back at him from the depths of the darkened ward.

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

It took him some time to realize what was happening, to understand why the ground was abruptly tilting uncontrollably beneath his own feet, why he suddenly found that he couldn't free himself. Jones's last words rang loudly and almost deafeningly in his ears, as if stuck on an endless loop as he pulled desperately and uselessly on his trapped appendage, his claws unable to slip out of the eyelash they had embedded themselves deep within mere seconds ago.

 _"She ain't going down..._ _**You** _ _are!"_

Fear washing over him in a giant wave, he looked over his left shoulder, watching in shock, fury and astonishment as Jones swiftly pieced himself together and bolted, never looking back at the virus he'd tricked, never even thinking of doing so, the stolen chain in hand and held close.

He was escaping. Leaving him behind. And Thrax was trapped. Trapped with no escape in perhaps the most ludicrous way possible, his own arrogance and pride finally catching up to him, betraying him, leading to what would undoubtedly be his own demise if he did not succeed in freeing himself right now.

_"No!"_

Gritting his teeth, he yanked furiously on his own hand, eyes brightening in an early sense of triumph as he felt his claws finally shift, finally slide upwards, budging at last from where they had been wedged deep into the hollow eyelash in his blind and almost maddening fury.

That's it... Just a little bit more and he would be free. And Jones would pay for his deceit and interference.. Would pay with his very _life_. Thrax would damn well make sure of that.

But life apparently had other ideas for him as that was the exact moment when the connection between the real and the false eyelashes finally came undone and he was suddenly falling, his core sinking uncontrollably in his chest as he sharply plummeted to the ground below, temporarily losing his grip on the lash beneath him before he somehow managed to regain it.

His claw finally slipping free with one last powerful yank, he grasped desperately for the dark folds of his trench coat, pushing himself away from the rough surface mere seconds before the accursed thing could come into contact with the clear liquid of the beaker rising up to meet it, swiftly tilting himself upwards and gliding in the direction of the transparent edges.

Though he could not entirely avoid the giant splash the object's landing had created.

An agonized cry, shrill and piercing, wrung itself past his lips of its own accord as thick drops of alcohol suddenly drenched his form, far from enough to start the dissolving process, but more than enough to burn straight through his clothes, mercilessly scorching the red envelope hiding beneath.

Terror, cold and jarring, pooling uncontrollably within his broad chest, he angled himself upwards even more, yellow, panic-stricken eyes watching as his coat began to swiftly come apart at the seams, alcohol burning right through the thick material with horrifying ease, the virus feeling himself slowing down, swiftly losing altitude.

If he fell now, he was as good as dead.

No!

Mere seconds before he could fall into the clear liquid below, he reached out, claws grasping desperately for the transparent edges of the alcohol filled beaker and barely latching on just in time, his coat finally giving out and becoming unusable as wind whistled shrilly through the large holes burned into the thick material. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself upwards, another strangled cry of pain wringing itself past his clenched teeth as hurt radiated through his entire form, a slightly hotter wave in the ocean of scorching white agony currently consuming him.

_Jones would pay for this.._

He couldn't glide down once he did manage to haul himself over the edge. Not with the pitiful scraps of what had used to be his trench coat mere minutes ago. He wouldn't die from the fall, any fall really due to being a virus, but he would most certainly break something if he attempted to jump off. And Thrax knew that he could not afford to add broken bones to his already existing list of injuries. Not if he wanted to get to a body, _Frank's_ body, in order to get his chain back. As well as kill the foolish blood cell who had foiled his plans, nearly brought around his demise.

The time for playing games was over.

Agony radiated up his arms as his claws sank deeply into the previously smooth surface of the transparent beaker, bearing his whole weight as he began to steadily make his way down, down to the metallic table surface waiting for him below. Through sheer force of will, he forced himself to suffer through it, teeth clenching tight and effectively stifling another shout that threatened to escape his scorched throat, yellow eyes slowly sliding shut.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in so much pain, not for many years at least. Not since his first months as a virus had he ever been beaten this much, shot at, blown up, iced. He had always been able to evade most of Immunity's forces, as he'd been trained to do. Until Jones that is.

But being quite literally doused in alcohol was definitely a first for him.

His claws gave out before he could quite reach the bottom.

A wordless screech echoed through the chilly hospital air as he landed on the metallic surface of the table with a sickening crack, his right arm folding and crumpling beneath his weight, bending at an odd angle.

Great. There went all hope of making it into some city without broken limbs on top of his already existing chemical burns.

Darkness edging his vision, he forced himself to his feet with a heavy wobble and a low hiss, stumbling uncontrollably before somehow managing to pull himself upright, scorching yellow eyes slowly searching the area.

Even from way over here he could see that the girl was crying now, having long since vacated her place at the foot of her parent's gurney, and begging for her lousy excuse for a father to come back to her, pleading for him not to leave her all alone. Under normal circumstances, he would've undoubtedly taken some time to linger outside, watched her wail her little heart out with savage amusement before moving onward to another city, setting a new deadline for himself before destroying it. Just like he had with so many of his other victims, those that actually _had_ loved ones to cry over them in the first place that is.

Though none of their performances seemed to quite top the one he'd witnessed from the mother of one of his first heist victims, a little girl he'd spent three weeks figuring out how to kill. But now wasn't the time for reminiscing about his old exploits. No. He _needed_ to figure out where Jones had gone off to now. Was he still on the kid's body? Or had he already vacated it by somehow making his way back to Frank City?

Just then, a shrill beeping broke the grim silence that had fallen upon the human hospital, and the virus looked up, watching as the monitors began to register a heartbeat, the man's body shuddering as the doctors immediately leaned over the narrow gurney once more, frantically searching for a pulse, breathing, virtually any sign of life out there and soon confirming that his heart had indeed started working once again.

So... Jones had succeeded in getting the DNA bead back to it's rightful place after all...

Gritting his crooked teeth in a vicious snarl, Thrax began to make his way back to the prone form now lying on the giant gurney, supporting his broken arm and intent on loosing himself within the more rundown neighborhoods of the other's body. Just until he could heal. There was no way he would be able to face the cop in the state that he was in now. Thrax needed some time to rest and recuperate. After that, however, he would make sure to track down Jones again. And take back what was rightfully his.

But at the same time he knew that he wouldn't just stop at the murder of the white blood cell. No. They would _all_ pay for his disgrace. The pill, his cop colleagues, the chick he'd used as a shield from their blasts and even the mayor. They would _all_ die at his hand. Preferably well before the virus world could learn of his failure.

Things had finally started looking up for the La Muerte Roja Family. They were finally gaining a reputation. The knowledge of his failure and defeat could very well put all of that at risk, throw any progress that had been made by them up until now straight in the gutter.

And Thrax couldn't do something like that to them.

Returning to Frank City was unfavorable, but at this point his only viable option. With the state he was currently in, Thrax knew that he would never be able to reach the human's daughter in time to infect her, she was already moving away from her father's form, urged to retreat to the waiting room by the doctors attending to her parent and her pathetic excuse of an uncle. And he didn't want to risk losing Frank by invading one of the doctors. Unfortunately, going back to the city he'd almost burnt down seemed to be his only choice now.

Going back to the Ingrown Toenail was also most certainly out of the question. With the city's heightened awareness and his recent actions against the germ gangs operating there, he would instantly be noticed and most likely ratted out to Immunity. He needed to pick a different location, one which he could navigate with relative ease while remaining entirely under the radar. The Liver perhaps.. Or maybe even one of the Kidneys. Yes, that would definitely be a good start.

He would later learn to regret that decision for the rest of his life.

Night had fallen by the time he finally reached the slums of the Right Kidney, nearly collapsing in the streets in his overwhelming pain and exhaustion. Hurt travelled through his entire form with every step that he took, effectively forcing the virus to stop more and more often in order to catch his breath, his yellow eyes slowly sliding shut from the wracking agony coursing through his system.

Thrax had suffered a lot of injuries during the years he'd spent infecting and killing human hosts, but few could really compare to those that he was experiencing now, tormenting him until he felt like he was slowly being torn apart, shredded and disintegrated bit by torturous bit. It was only a matter of time before he lost consciousness.. he needed to find some form of shelter as soon as possible.

Locating an abandoned building didn't turn out to be too difficult. Not in this neighborhood. Though he would never choose to spend a single night in such a place under normal circumstances, now Thrax couldn't bring himself to care about the quality of his lodgings, simply desperate to get out of the streets before he could collapse from his wounds.

Slipping into a dusty looking room and stumbling over the pathetic shambles of what undoubtedly used to be furniture a long time ago, the virus sagged heavily against a cracked wall, his legs finally giving out beneath him and wracking coughs assaulting his form, violent shivers radiating throughout his hunched body.

This would have to do. For now.

Despite his best efforts and the knowledge that he needed to tend to his injuries before an infection could set in, Thrax found himself losing consciousness regardless, finally succumbing to the scorching pain encompassing his entire form. Little did he know that he was being followed the whole way here, that he was being tracked. Little did he know that when he woke again he would find himself held prisoner by a person he hadn't spoken to or even seen in many years, not since they had split ways after he'd learned of the other's betrayal. How very unaware he was in that moment that he would be chained and tormented for months on end, pushed to his very limits until he was on the very precipice of shattering completely.

And that he would never be the same again after it.

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=

"We're moving ya."

It took him some time to realize that the other had finally spoken, but when he did, Thrax forced himself to look up, yellow eyes narrowing into tiny slits of utter hatred and disgust.

"What?"

Jones's expression darkened.

"I said we're moving ya. Next week. Doctors finally deemed ya stable enough for travel."

The virus chose to say nothing in reply to the sudden declaration, silence falling between them once more and his claws scraping restlessly against the gurney beneath him.

The news didn't come as a surprise to him, not really. He had already expected himself to be transferred the moment he was no longer considered to be at death's door and was even ready to celebrate the slight change in surroundings. Truly welcomed the prospect of it, in fact. No more invasive poking and prodding, no more annoying nurses flitting in and out of his room, flinching and fleeing in fear at every movement he made, even if it was with the simple purpose of getting more comfortable on the bed he was lying on. No more venomous whispers behind his back, the hateful remarks and dark glares having long since become tedious to deal with.

Thrax chose to studiously ignore the fact that anxiety now clawed at him every time a threatening look was sent his way.

Yes.. Some time spent in solitary would be a nice change of pace perhaps. Even with the no doubt deplorable living arrangements.

Jones must've somehow read his mind, guessed what he was thinking, because he cautiously stepped closer, leaning heavily against the metal railings at the end of his bed.

"Ya ain't going to prison, Thrax. Ya're gunna be stayin' with me until we can catch the bastard behind all o' this."

Now _that_ got his attention almost instantly.

Apparently catching the silent glimpse of shock and question in his eyes, Osmosis graciously continued. "Since yo' the only witness we have and we can't currently afford puttin' ya in protective custody, it was decided that ya'll be stayin' with me. Can't put your life at risk by throwin' ya behind bars, ya know.. Not ta mention that ya probably need protection now. What with the... Ya know."

And he _did_ know. But that didn't mean that the acknowledgement of his own vulnerability did not serve to infuriate him even more, crooked teeth clenching in a snarl and long claws sinking deeply into the white sheets beneath him.

Even so, he forced himself to meet the cop's gaze as levelly as he possibly could, yellow eyes boring into black, a vicious sneer just barely pulling at the corners of his lips.

"Why you? The cold pill get cold feet?" That wouldn't be all that surprising, all things considered. The other had avoided visiting him ever since he'd woken up in this God forsaken hospital, only appearing once or twice in order to fulfil his duty of a police officer by questioning him about his assault. Not that he'd managed to get any useful information out of him, of course.

Jones sent him a forced, crooked smile. "More like he couldn't stand the thought of starin' at yo' ugly mug every mornin' of every day."

Thrax snorted, derision flickering over his sharp features. A heavy, uneasy silence fell between them once more.

The hospital chair rattled unpleasantly as it was suddenly pulled up to his bed, the cop seating himself heavily upon it with a deep sigh and bracing himself with his elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving the virus's face. "Look.. Thrax.. Ya gotta see that we have ta put this thing behind us. 'Least temporarily. Neither of us 's gonna benefit from fightin' now."

Thrax's lips curled in a derisive sneer the man finally forcing himself to turn his full attention to the white blood cell mercilessly pestering him now. Yellow eyes flashed in all-consuming anger. Though, he had to admit that some part of him was also amused. Amused at the sheer audacity it took to request something like that of him, the foolishness and perhaps even bravery.

He was going to go with foolishness.

"Ya actually expect me ta play nice with ya, _Jones_? After everything ya've done to _me_?!"

The cop's face contorted in a dark scowl, all attempts at friendliness vanishing in an instant. "What I've done to _you_?? How about I recount all the things ya've done ta _me_? Startin' with almost killin' me fo' instance and almost doin' the same to Frank!"

"I'm a _virus_ , Jones," The crimson being drawled, voice almost taking on a patronizing tone, the cuffs rattling unpleasantly against the metallic railings of the medical gurney as he sharply leaned forward, yellow eyes all but glowing in the semi-darkness of the lonely hospital ward. "I _kill_. That's what I _do_. It was nothin' personal."

"Riiiight. Sure. Well I am a white blood cell and my job is ta fight guys like you, so guess what? Wasn't personal on my side neither." The response was highly immature of him, even Ozzy understood that. Knew that out of the two of them, he was the one supposed to at least _try_ and keep a level head. To _try_ and be as understanding as possible. After all, _he_ wasn't the one currently recovering from severe injuries. _He_ wasn't the one still in the process of grieving after being basically crippled for life. And Thrax _was_.

As tough as he tried to act, it was glaringly obvious that the virus was still reeling from the devastating blow he'd been dealt. Was still trying to come to terms with his new disability, to gather his thoughts and find a way to keep moving forward. Whether he liked it or not, Thrax was currently not in complete control of himself and probably wouldn't be for a long time yet. If ever.

But even so, the other still somehow seemed to possess this uncanny ability to rile him regardless, to throw him off balance, make him give in to his rage and hatred.

They would never be able to work together if he didn't learn to control himself, the cop knew that. But by Frank it was so _difficult_. Thrax had almost taken _everything_ away from him. His job in Immunity, his home, his life itself. He had even almost killed Leah... Those were things that could never be forgiven. Not truly. And now he was being forced to put all of those crimes aside in favor of catching the guy threatening all the virus cells living within Frank City. Even if that meant helping Thrax get his revenge.

It just wasn't _fair_.

A heavy sigh left his lips as he finally looked up, forcing himself to meet Thrax's scorching gaze head on. "Look, like it or not, we gotta work together on this. You know it, I know it. None of us have anythin' ta gain by continuing to fight with each otha'. Don't you think it would be beneficial for both o' us to at least _try_ an' get along until all of this is ova'? Ya get to have yo' revenge, an I get to clean the streets of a criminal. We can both get a _win_ outta this, Thrax. Fightin' amongst ourselves will only lead ta failure now, ta that bastard actually gettin' what he wants. And I know that _you_ would hate seein' somethin' like that happen as much as I would, if not even more. So, _please_ , Thrax. Can't we just put this rivalry on hold till all o' this is done with?"

The virus said nothing for the longest time after his tirade, as if considering his proposal and regarding him carefully from the corner of his eyes before glancing away, jaw setting in what was either frustration or anger, Jones unable to tell exactly which. Gritting his teeth as silence stretched between them and it quickly became obvious that the other would not speak to him again, the white blood cell rose from his seat with a frustrated huff, pushing the chair he'd been using to its original spot against the wall with a terrible screech and turning his back on the injured being.

Dissapointment settled like a heavy weight within his nucleolus. Here he thought that Thrax would actually be able to see reason...

But before he could finally leave the darkened room the other suddenly chose to speak up once again, voice no more than a low, dangerous lilt that was enough to send cold shivers running down the cop's spine, Jones turning to glance at him over one shoulder. Not facing him fully, but tilting himself just enough to be able to see him from the corner of his eyes, mouth pulling into a grim line.

"Fine. I will work with ya, _Jones_ , just until I get my revenge," Thrax's crooked teeth bared in a barely visible snarl, yellow eyes flashing dangerously in the evening shadows that had long since fallen upon the hospital ward. "But after that.. I _will_ kill you."

Ozzy's lips pulled into perhaps the first genuine smile he'd shown in days.

"I would expect nothing less from ya, Thrax."


	5. Chapter 5

"Ya've got ta be kiddin' me."

Jones, curse that white blood cell to hell and back, actually had the audacity to grin at the quiet horror in his voice, leaning heavily against the wheelchair he'd pulled up next to his bed, an amused chuckle leaving his throat and black eyes twinkling with unconcealed mirth. "Nawh, I'm not."

Thrax's face, still displaying the strongest sense of utter dread it could possibly muster, snapped up to glare balefully at him. "If ya think I'm usin' that thing outside of this hospital, ya're _sorely_ mistaken, _Jones_."

To his great frustration, however, the cop didn't even blink at the growled threat, didn't so much as twitch at the quiet venom all but rolling off the virus's voice in waves, that revolting grin only widening the more his expression seemed to darken in contrast, claws slowly curling into tight fists and cuffs rattling with the force of the faint rage-fueled tremors traveling through his hunched form.

"Ya ain't cleared for walkin' long distances yet, Thrax. In fact, cuz of the particular location of the stab wound, ya're gunna need a lotta assistance with doin' that even when ya are. So, like it or not, ya're gonna have to use this thing ta move around for now. Just until the doctors say otherwise."

The virus bared his crooked teeth in a weak growl. "I am _not_ gettin' on that thing." Ozzy only rolled his eyes in response, visibly unimpressed.

"Fine by me. But bear in mind, that Drip's gonna have to carry you if that's the case. So I gotta ask now, what'd ya prefer more: bridal style, or over the shoulder?"

If looks could kill, Ozzy swore that he would be a blue puddle of swiftly cooling goo on the polished hospital floor. Thrax stared daggers at him, yellow eyes no more than tiny slits of pure, almost hellish rage and hands slowly curling back into tight fists, shredding the white sheets beneath him into ribbons. Again. What was it with this guy and tearing innocent fabric that did absolutely nothing to offend him?

Shaking his head, he forced himself to take on a more serious expression, turning to fully face the virus once again. He could handle being professional, surely... At least for a short time. But even with his best efforts, he still couldn't quite stop himself from shaking in silent laughter at the sight. One that only grew in intensity at the persistent, withering glare the virus sent his way.

Sometimes, he really had to wonder if the guy ever smiled. Naturally at least, and not in that menacing way he had back in the Zit or during their confrontation on Shane's eyelash. _Those_ diabolical grins still haunted his darkest nightmares.

Though unfortunately the laughter evaporated within seconds as a sharp claw was suddenly jabbed in his direction, coming uncomfortably close to his pliable membrane and prompting him to take a quick step back, immediately putting himself far out of the other man's reach. He'd experienced those miniature blades on his body once, had seen them several times in action and knew just how much damage they could really do. Knew how exceedingly _easy_ it would be for Thrax to kill him by slicing right through his membrane, forcing all of his insides to spill out onto the floor.

Just because he could no longer actually infect anyone did not mean that the other wasn't still very, _very_ dangerous.

" _You_ aren't pushin' me anywhere," the virus conceded to the inevitable with a warning growl, eyes flashing dangerously in the dim morning light sluggishly filtering into the tiny room through the single window adorning it. "I'm doin' it myself."

The cop merely grinned in response, raising his hands in what could only be described as his best rendition of a placating manner. One which he failed horribly at, but hey, at least he was actually trying here. Unlike _some_. "Fine, fine. 'S long as you don't pull out any stitches or somethin' like that. Would hate ta take ya back here only ta bother the good doctors again."

The other's sharp features contorted in a nasty smile for the first time during their prolonged quarrel. "D'aww, ya sayin' they won't be happy ta see me?"

Jones shot him a deadpan look, eyebrows raised. "Ya really want me ta answer that question? 'Cause I don't quite think ya'll like the answer too much, man."

The virus merely rolled his eyes in reply as the cop finally took this moment to stride forward, fishing out his keys to the handcuffs as he went. Despite the other's open bravado and disdain for him, however, he didn't quite miss the way Thrax tensed as he approached. Didn't overlook the brief flash of fear and trepidation over the other's face seconds before he could manage to reign it in, an irritated growl ghosting over the corner of his lips. Didn't miss the anxious, almost _panicked_ twitch of razor sharp claws as he slowly drew near.

The cop's round features darkened a fraction in a concerned thrown at that, sadness slowly wrapping its familiar, icy fingers around his core despite his best efforts of stifling it.

This wasn't the first time he was witnessing this.. this _reaction_ that the virus displayed whenever he was approached by somebody else. This _response_ that wasn't entirely under his control, and one that he desperately tried to hide from them each time, yellow eyes narrowing and features contorting in weak, forced and utterly _false_ rage.

The truth of the matter here seemed to be that... _Thrax was visibly afraid of him_... Afraid of virtually _anyone_ coming too close, too near, instantly tensing up even if they stood as much as a few feet away from him... Simply did not trust any one of them to come close without the intention of hurting him, of bringing him any sort of pain. As if some long buried part of the crimson virus still believed this to be some sort of ploy. Some elaborate game for their collective amusement. And that lack of trust, that complete absence of faith in their sincerity perhaps saddened Jones the most.

He'd hoped, of course, that this was only a temporary reaction. Given the full vulnerability of his current predicament, it would only be a natural response until the virus could fully acclimate to his situation. But as the days slowly trickled by, it became more and more clear that that wasn't the case here at all.

It quickly became obvious that Thrax did not feel safe anymore. Around them or otherwise. Was simply _incapable_ of doing so now, regarding every corner with suspicion, displaying wariness of every shadow. The confidence, the complete trust and control he usually exhibited over his surroundings seemed to be gone. And it would be an even longer time before he would be able to show them again, to feel comfortable once more. If ever.

Anger and hatred toward the man behind all of this roiled bitterly within his chest.

No cell deserved to have their sense of safety taken away from them. None. No matter what. Ozzy was vehement on that matter at least.

Slowly, carefully, making sure that Thrax could see his every movement, he cautiously unlocked the metallic cuffs from around thin wrists, temporarily allowing the other some freedom to move around. Not that he would be able to do much or try and get away in his still severely weakened state, but they needed to take them off temporarily in order to be able to transfer him with little complication. They would instantly be placed back on him at the first signs of trouble, of course, and Jones had made sure to bring a tranquilizer gun with him just in case, so it wasn't like they weren't taking any precautions or needlessly endangering the public.

The virus wouldn't be hurting anybody during the move, they would make sure of that.

The moment he fully withdrew from the other's personal space, Thrax finally allowed himself to relax and shift, his shoulders falling from where they had been set in a stiff hold and claws slowly cradling his injured wrist, thumb tracing the faint scar now marring the crimson envelope there. As he'd probably been longing to do for several days now, but had been unable due to the restraints strapped around him.

Something flashed over the other's face then. Something sad, something pained, there and gone within seconds as the virus remembered his present company before he could fully succumb to his increasingly darkening thoughts, forcefully pulling himself away from the brink of succumbing to his own despair. It was obvious, that he wouldn't allow himself to break, even if he desperately wanted to, if just for a few short minutes. Not in front of Jones at least. Not when the cop would easily be able to see the full force of his sorrow.

Osmosis couldn't stop his nucleolus from clenching within his chest if he tried.

The man looked up sharply as a heavy package was suddenly plopped down onto the soft matress of his bed, yellow eyes snapping upwards to meet black in palpable surprise and visible confusion.

"Clothes," Ozzy supplied in response to the silent question, leaning back against the bare wall behind him and crossing his arms tightly over his broad chest. "Since we couldn't salvage what was left of yours, you'll have ta wear these for now 'till we can find somethin' better suited for ya."

Thrax seemed determined on avoiding actually talking to him as much as possible, because he said nothing as he slowly reached out, unwrapping the offered t-shirt and jeans and grimacing slightly at the mere sight of them. The cop tried to remind himself that whether or not they actually fit the other's fashion tastes was not entirely his concern, but even so, he couldn't stop the offended huff from slipping past his lips if he tried.

It wasn't _his_ fault that he couldn't find anything better for the other to wear. He had gone through a _lot_ of effort to find _something_ that would actually _fit_ the man as it were! If anything, Thrax had nothing, but his own height and powerful build to blame for his lack of decent clothing options. And besides, weren't viruses as a rule supposed to be much smaller than blood cells?

But that was currently neither here and there. For Frank's sake, he had to stop himself from allowing Thrax get under his skin so easily. Especially if they were to work together until they could close this case.

"Ya gonna keep standing there while I change, _Jones_? Didn't take ya for a voyeur." The all too familiar arrogant drawl soon broke him out of the deep thoughts he'd unwittingly lost himself within and he looked up, lips quirking in a jagged, forced smile.

On second thought, who said that he _had_ to always be polite and civil to the other during their short alliance? The other obviously had no problems with insulting him any chance he got, so why shouldn't he do the same?

The thought that at least _one_ of them should actually act like an adult in this situation was there and gone within seconds.

"Why? Don't tell me ya're self-conscious," he uttered in reply, smug satisfaction washing over him at the obvious offence that flashed quickly over those familiar sharp features, there and gone in moments, yellow eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. Good. That showed the virus that he wasn't the only one who could insult and rile on a whim. Ozzy wasn't considered one of the most annoying people on the force for no reason, after all, as he knew exactly which buttons to press and when.

Though the cop's premature jubilation evaporated within seconds as a slow grin spread across Thrax's face.

Uh-oh. That simply _couldn't_ be good for him. Not at all.

"Suit yourself, baby."

And it wasn't.

Thrax's laughter, cold and cruel and more of a diabolical cackle than anything else, followed him out of the lonely ward as he slammed his back against the membrane wall of the hospital corridor, eyes wide and mind blank, almost as if broken. Only one thought ran through it then, again and again, as if stuck on an endless loop, the image that he now desperately wished to purge from it forever seeming to hover before him, burning itself into his vision for all eternity.

He had expected a lot of things from Thrax, a _lot_. But actually undressing in front of him, baring his upper body to somebody else so _easily_ , so _brazenly_ , no matter how bandaged up it may be... definitely wasn't one of them.

Jones supposed he should be grateful that he had escaped the ward when he had, far before he could be forced to see more.

"Ya're shameless." He breathed, leaning heavily against the white wall behind him, black eyes wide in barely controlled shock.

"And ya're easy. I thought ya wanted ta stay an' watch, _Jones_." Even though he could no longer actually see the crimson virus, he could practically _hear_ the nasty grin coating that familiar voice.

The white blood cell had to remind himself for the umpteenth time that actually shooting the other in the face several times wasn't an option.

"How the Frank are ya so fit?" A foolish question on his part perhaps, but one that he couldn't stop himself from asking regardless. While far from being out of shape, few of his colleagues had been able to even come _close_ to that level of musculature. While their pliable membranes certainly had their strengths by allowing them to change shape and thus travel from tissue to tissue at will (as well as avoid deadly glowing claws from skewering them, thankfully), they also had their own weaknesses as they made building and maintaining any sort of muscle that much harder for them. Viruses, on the other hand, did not possess that, their lipid envelopes were much harder, much less versatile than a blood cell's, thus allowing them to remain in shape far easier.

Didn't make it at all fair though.

He could all but imagine the other rolling his eyes even as the virus opened his mouth to reply, the arrogant baritone easily reaching his ears even from the other's spot all the way inside the medical ward. " _Excercise_ , Jones. Patience and a lot of excercise." Though the cop was quickly growing tired of being forced to be on the receiving end of the patronizing tone, he could admit that he probably deserved it this time around.

"Whatever, jus'.. jus' change and get in the chair. Drip's already waiting for us downstairs by the car."

To avoid being ambushed by the more ambitious of journalists who no doubt longed to be the first to cover the virus's transfer, it was decided that they would be leaving at the break of dawn, using the hospital's back door to get Thrax out and into the car far before the cells could fully surround them. After all, the less publicity the virus actually got - the better. They didn't want his attacker knowing too much about where he was, or who he was being guarded by. They'd barely been able to keep the name of the hospital out of the news for this long as it were.

News spread like wildfire through the system of Frank. The last thing they truly needed now was anyone finding out where they were actually taking him. Especially with their severely limited resources as setting up a second location for the virus would be exceedingly difficult at this point in time. Most of their efforts were still being redirected to the rebuilding of their cities.

A low scraping sound broke him out of his increasingly darkening thoughts and he looked up, eyes almost instantly brightening in amusement and lips twitching in a suppressed smile, all worries successfully retreating to the back of his mind where they no doubt rightfully belonged. "Ya look ridiculous, man."

Thrax shot him a withering glance from his new place in the offered contraption. "Shut up, Jones."

"Aright"

Raising his hands in easy surrender, he moved to grasp at the dark, rubber handles of the wheelchair, intent on wheeling the other all the way to the car, but the virus almost instantly swatted him away with an irritated huff, grasping at the wheels and easily maneuvering himself down the hallway and to the hospital's elevators. The cop had to watch him for a few seconds in stunned and somewhat dumbfounded silence before quickly giving chase, sprinting after him and barely managing to slip into the cramped cabin before the doors could fully slide shut in front of him.

"How the hell d'ya know how ta do that?" He panted as Thrax selected the ground floor with a single clawtip, sending him an utterly unimpressed look from the corner of his yellow eyes just as the lift began to finally move, the silver floor vibrating beneath them with the force of the slow descent.

"I wasn't born yesterday, _Jones,_ " he drawled in his usual patronizing manner, his long claws lacing together as he leaned back in his uncomfortable-looking seat, his angular face tilting upwards to watch the numbers of the floors steadily scroll by. "I've had ta use one of these before. Long enough to become acquainted with it." Oh _that_ had definitely been one of his more fun kills alright... But actually lingering on the previously pleasant memory as he would usually was now simply too painful to even try.

"Huh." Osmosis didn't even attempt to press him for more details. It wasn't really that important to him at this point in time and he highly doubted that the other would be willing to answer him anyway. Or if he would, well, the cop probably wouldn't like the story too much.

A heavy, awkward silence fell between them as the lift slowly made its way down, the floors and walls vibrating and rattling almost imperceptibly with the slow movement. With nothing better to do while they waited, Jones decided to take this time to truly examine his rival more closely. More so than he had ever been able to back in the lonely ward.

Even though he had probably spent most of his time locked up in hospital sleeping, Thrax looked absolutely exhausted. The smallest hunches and tensions in the other's shoulders, the large, dark rings beneath his eyes, clearly visible even with his natural facial markings, the barely noticeable slur in his speech - all spoke volumes of the virus's fatigue, told Jones a lot about the other's lack of proper rest.

Osmosis couldn't say he was at all surprised or taken aback by the knowledge. Not really. He'd been told by the nurses that the other hadn't been sleeping properly, his rest plagued by constant nightmares. Ones that he could never quite recall upon waking, but ones that were powerful enough to leave him in a prolonged, highly distressed state. Thrax never screamed though. Never showed any signs of fear other than an increased core beat, but even so, the effects of the disturbing dreams were highly obvious. Try as he might to hide it, they were clearly taking their toll on the virus and it was only a matter of time before he started to crack beneath the pressure, no matter how strong he might believe himself to be.

The cop withheld a worn-out sigh, dragging a heavy hand down his face.

After informing him of the care Thrax's injuries would require as well as subsequent physical therapy, the doctor had taken him aside, far away from prying ears, to inform him of something else, something that Osmosis, as the virus's assigned caretaker, would now have to actively look out for.

As it turns out, Thrax had had several panic attacks after the one Jones had been unfortunate enough to witness, all ranging in length and severity, and though none had quite surpassed the first yet, a panic disorder was now a very real possibility.

As if things weren't bad enough to begin with. This would definitely make their investigation that much more difficult, especially since the virus would _not_ appreciate others tiptoeing around him.

Thrax shifted slightly in his seat, getting a little more comfortable in the wheelchair he'd been given, a shadow of a grimace flickering briefly over his sharp features and Jones suddenly went very still, black eyes drawn to the other's form. "What the hell is tha'?" The virus sent him an irritated, condescending and at the same time overwhelmingly exhausted glance.

"What's _what_ , Jones? Be specific."

"Yo' neck..."

Yellow eyes widening a fraction, Thrax's clawed hand flew up, covering the jagged, nasty-looking line stretching across his neck, practically clavicle to clavicle. One that had previously been hidden by the gray turtleneck he usually wore, but was now bared for all of them to see with the revealing cut the t-shirt provided.

"Thrax?"

The virus turned his back on him, stubbornly avoiding his gaze, jaw setting and body going tense in its hard seat.

Just then, the elevator chimed softly as they finally reached the ground floor and the other wasted no time in getting away from him, clawed hands settling back on the wheels and pushing him along, the cop being forced to literally sprint after him if he wanted to even hope to be able to keep up.

Due to the early morning hours, there were still very few people actually walking the halls, the doctors working the night shift finishing up what they could and handing what they couldn't over to those arriving to work during the day. Thankfully, that meant fewer people to encounter and actually pay attention to them, Jones sending quick, sheepish and apologetic looks while struggling to catch up with his recent charge. Even though the other wasn't really speeding to begin with.

Frowning, curiosity gnawing at him with incessant viciousness, he decided to try again, black eyes wide and inquisitive as they studied the jagged scar despite the other's fervent attempts at concealing it from view. "Thrax?"

"Nun' o' yo' business, _Jones_." The virus ground out through clenched teeth, the look on his face dark. "Drop it."

Ultimately deciding against prompting and actually aggravating the other even further, the cop reluctantly backed down with a dissappointed frown, shoulders slumping in slight dejection. He could tell that it clearly wasn't recent, definitely wasn't a wound sustained during the other's.. _time_ with his unknown assailant. It looked _years_ old, maybe even decades. So why would Thrax hide it? What did it really mean to him? Was he ashamed of it? Could it still be somehow connected to the case? They _had_ concluded that the virus's attacker definitely knew him very well.. had possibly even worked with him at some point, long enough to become efficient at tracking his movements.

So what could possibly be the scar's significance? And why would the other be reluctant to talk about it? He didn't strike the cop as a guy who would be easily shamed, especially not when talking about marks sustained in a fight..

The crisp, morning air almost instantly enveloped their forms as they finally stepped out of the stuffy building, Thrax shivering slightly at the sudden change in temperature while Jones sighed in relief, welcoming it's freshness. He didn't quite know, much less understand, how _anyone_ could really stand staying within that building for such long periods of time. Maybe _that_ was partially why Thrax seemed even more irritable than usual, besides his lack of a decent night's sleep of course.

The crowd waiting for them surprised him.

Thrax swerved to a sudden halt, yellow eyes wide in shock as the world around them suddenly exploded with sound, screams, ear-shattering yells and rage-filled roars echoing in the cold air of early morning.

"Push 'em back!" Jones soon found himself shouting to the few colleagues that had been assigned to assist with the transfer, running up to stand next to the injured virus, somewhat shielding him from the flashing cameras and thrown objects. "Push 'em back, damn it!"

From the corner of his eyes he could see just how tense Thrax was now. Could glimpse the flashes of uncontrollable panic within those yellow eyes, the way those dark claws suddenly clenched around the wheels of his chair, brown knuckles paling several shades with the force of his tight grip. Could just barely see the faint tremors starting to travel through the other's form, the virus's breath stuttering within his broad chest as he desperately tried to stay in control and failed miserably in doing so.

"Thrax?"

Before he even knew it, he was already kneeling besides the other, fervently trying to grasp his attention, forcefully pulling it away from the suffocating crowd now flooding the previously empty street. "Hey-hey-hey, c'mon, look at me." He did his best to keep his own voice steady and reassuring, for both of them. Already he could hear the screams of enraged cells growing more distant as his fellow cops gently but firmly urged them to step away and give them some space, doing their best to hold back those desperate enough to lunge at the weakened virus, most definitely with the intention of wreaking damage and hurt upon him.

It was only a matter of time before somebody started shooting.

Resorting to desperate measures even though he knew it was best not to touch someone during such a turbulent time, not without express permission at least, Jones grasped the other by the shoulder, nearly sagging in relief as those yellow eyes finally snapped up towards him.

"We gotta move now, Thrax. C'mon, we don't got time for this." Perhaps he should've been significantly more gentle than that, definitely more understanding, but the urgency in his tone seemed to do the trick regardless, the crimson virus giving him a shallow nod and finally budging from where he'd temporarily been frozen in place. Even so, Osmosis made sure to walk beside him, carefully keeping himself between the injured being and the crowd straining to get at him.

By the time several gun shots rang through the cold morning air, they were already almost at the car, Drix stepping out briefly to help out, before the three of them quickly settled into it, wasting no time in getting it started and leaving the hospital premises before things could get even more violent than they already were.

The cop could only hope that nobody got seriously hurt during the brief violence. Officer and civilian alike.

"A little warnin' woulda been real nice," Jones griped after they had driven a few blocks, black eyes glancing accusingly at his partner from the corner of his eyes. "I could've called for additional security and armored transport or somethin'. We coulda been shot, Drips."

"I'm sorry, Jones, but I called the chief and it was decided that any extra measures were not warranted. Calling in additional troops appeared unnecessary at that point in time and could've possibly only exacerbated the situation. Besides, we could not exactly afford to wait. That would've only given time for the crowd to grow. We had everything under control."

"Does that look like 'under control' ta ya, Drips?" The cop hissed quietly in reply, inconspicuously yet violently jerking his head in the direction of the back seat.

Thrax's face had gone blank again, entirely expressionless. Even so, both of them could sense the barely palpable distress hiding just beneath the surface, see the faint tremors now travelling through the other's form, all but invisible, but undeniably there. Could see the familiar, slightly glassy look resurface once more in those yellow eyes, the virus obviously lost in deep thought, if not long buried memories.

Worry starting to just barely gnaw at his core, Osmosis considered snapping him out of it, calling out his name in hopes of dragging his attention back to the present rather than allow him to keep focusing on what would undoubtedly lead to another attack, but... Something held him back, some nagging, persistent thought that refused to leave his exhaustion ravaged mind despite his best efforts.

The doctor's warning rang through his mind.

Maybe... it would actually be better if he did not interfere here and now. Perhaps he should... _allow_ the other to delve into his increasingly spiraling thoughts, to possibly even start _remembering_. After all, what did he care of the effects they would undoubtedly have on Thrax? The guy had almost ruined his life, had almost ruined _all_ of their lives, in fact, and seemed to have derived great pleasure and pride from doing it. The blood of thousands of people: cells, germs and humans alike stained his claws, proving him to forever be completely irredeemable.

 _This_ was nothing compared to what Thrax had done over the years and there was virtually no reason for him to actually take pity on him. The virus knew what he was doing when he stole that DNA bead, had knowingly signed up for it, and all but invited trouble upon his own hide.

Actually stopping him from crumpling and snapping beneath the crushing weight of the consequences of his own actions would be a great disservice to all of those who had lost their lives at the other's hands. Ozzy would only be serving to tarnish their memory by helping him through this.

_No. I would only be proving myself to be just as bad as he is._

A voice whispered into his ears and his fingers clenched tighter around the wheel, black eyes narrowing into slits as he stared gloomily ahead.

_Compassion is what separates us from these people. Compassion, empathy and love. Things that they don't have, things that they don't and will never understand. If I give in to my hatred now, I will knowingly be forfeiting these qualities. I will be betraying my oath as an Immunity officer to serve and protect all people, no matter who or what they may be and uphold the law... Even if that entails working with a former killer in order to catch another._

Jaw setting in frustration and anger, he avoided Drix's concerned glance, stubbornly keeping his gaze only on the road in front of them.

_I'm not like Thrax... And I will prove it. To myself first and foremost._

Though he would never willingly admit it, his own anger and hatred sometimes scared him. The urge that had gnawed at him to leave, to let the virus bleed out back in that filthy alleyway still horrified him to this day, still haunted his darkest dreams. If Drix hadn't been there to keep him in the present then, hadn't reminded him of his job as an officer, if they'd been all alone, just the two of them.. Ozzy wasn't entirely sure that he would've actually saved the virus. If he wouldn't have simply walked away, allowed Thrax to die and forever fade from existence, never to hurt anyone again.

 _It would've been so easy to end it all_...

If he wasn't able to do this, to push past this.. this _thing_ that suddenly plagued him, the cop wasn't sure he would be able to keep doing his job. Wasn't sure if he would be able to actually _trust_ himself to do the right thing, no matter the difficulty, the serious cost. He _needed_ to know if he could _do_ this. To uphold the family honor. Just like his relatives had in the past.

Neither Leah nor Drix would ever be able to fully understand that.

"Yo' Thrax, ya okay back there?" He finally forced himself to ask, glancing at the other through the overhead mirror.

Yellow eyes snapped up to look at him, surprise and recognition flickering briefly within their depths, closely followed by rage. Oh, good. The virus was obviously already feeling _much_ better if he was actually glaring at him like that.

"Contrary to your beliefs, I am _not_ fragile, _Jones,_ " Thrax snarled, claws twitching and digging ruthlessly into the cushioned car seat beneath him, smirking at the almost pained look that flashed over the cop's face at the mere sight of the inflicted damage. "A mob ain't anythin' I haven't dealt with befo'."

Oh, the bastard was _definitely_ feeling much better.

"Riiiight, whateva' ya say, man," the cell said, pointedly turning his attention back to the road and greatly enjoying the irritated huff that action earned him. "Just try not ta freeze up like that the next time we run into some trouble. I ain't dragging your overgrown ass out a second time."

The virus's yellow eyes instantly narrowed into tiny slits.

"I'm going to _kill_ ya, Jones!"

"Alright, that is **enough**!" Drix intervened before their squabble could continue much further, voice a deep, commanding rumble that effectively silenced both of them within seconds, swiftly putting an end to the short-lived fight.

"Jones, if you can't keep yourself in check I _will_ call Miss Estrogen and ask her to assign me as the virus's caretaker instead, and **you** ," Thrax looked up from where he'd been busy grinning nastily in the cop's direction, meeting the pill's gaze head on, "Don't think for a second that I don't know what you're doing. If you aren't willing to cooperate, I swear to Frank, you _will_ end up in a jail cell before the day is out, injured or not, am I clear?"

Feeling highly unimpressed and yet strangely chastised at the same time, the virus merely raised a crimson eye ridge in the other's direction in an almost perfect rendition of a bored look, claws flexing as he took this time to imagine just how very satisfying it would be to crush that ridiculously shaped head like a human would a tin can. "Crystal, baby."

"Good," Drix said, completely ignoring the obvious venom coating the other's voice and turning back to the road ahead, refusing to allow the virus to rile him. "Then we have an understanding." Thrax clenched his teeth in an irritated growl. After he was done with his unknown attacker and the white blood cell currently sitting in front of him, the cold pill was definitely the next person on his list to kill.

Silence, heavy and awkward fell between them as they continued driving, both police officers regularly checking the mirrors to make sure that they weren't being followed by possible cars belonging to journalists. Instead of trying to engage with them again in desperate hopes of amusing himself, the virus decided to take this time to reflect on his situation, leaning back in his comfortable seat and eye ridges furrowing in deep thought.

He hadn't really thought about... About what had happened to him. Not truly. Hadn't exactly _tried_ to analyze his current predicament. The days spent trapped in hospital were mostly filled with confusion instead of any rational thought, consumed by feelings of loss and, though he would not willingly admit it, even _fear_.

In the back of his mind, Thrax realized that what he'd gone through, was _still_ going through was completely normal, that his body and mind were merely trying to adjust to the sudden change, but at the same time simply couldn't accept it. Not really. Truth be told, he simply could not _believe_ what was happening to him, couldn't _believe_ that this was actually real. That he would never.. never again be able to-

A clawed, shaking hand dragged down his angular face and he sagged back in his seat, faint tremors just barely starting to travel through his form once more.

The truth of the matter was that... he was _done_. Finished. Everything he had been, everything he was and would ever be in the viral community - all gone. His career? Effectively over. His place in the Roja family? Probably gone. Even if he did somehow get his revenge, slaughter the person who'd done this to him - it would change nothing besides give him some temporary satisfaction. He would never again be accepted back into the fold, he knew that. Thrax was nothing but a liability to them now, a fucking _cripple_ , an _embarrassment_. He used to _be_ something once, but now? Now he was _nothing_. And that would never again change.

_Maybe he should've allowed himself to die back in that vat of alcohol... While he still had something to his name. While he was still a source of pride for the family._

Ending it all now would be cowardly, an exit only a weakling would ever take. Something that Thrax most definitely _wasn't_. Actually punishing the person responsible.. was perhaps his only chance to go out more or less honorably now.

Sharp claws subconsciously traced the raised ridges of the pale scar running along his throat.

_He hadn't died back then... But he was certainly dying now._

Oh, the **irony**.

A bitter chuckle left his throat, but it came out sounding more like a choked sob more than it did anything else, the crimson being soon turning away from his oblivious rescuers to stare forlornly out of the tinted windows, watching the buildings and streets blur together as they sped past.

Neither Jones, nor his cold pill of a partner seemed to notice.


End file.
